``She's been talking about a picture,'' Winston had told him.

``Picture! You mean picture of me?'' But Winston had persuaded him.

On Christmas night, they had had a disagreement about it. Winston had heard because he was setting up the liquor tray in the next room. Through the door, he had seen Mr. Jack walking around, waiting for Miss Ada. Finally she had come down; Winston had heard her shaking out the skirt of her new pink silk hostess gown.

``How do you like it?'' she had asked.

Mr. Jack had said, ``You look about fifteen years old.''

``Is that a compliment?''

``I don't know.'' He had stood at a little distance, studying her, as though he would walk around next and look at the back of her head.

``Lovie, you make me feel naked.'' Miss Ada had giggled, and she went sweeping and rustling to the couch and sank down.

``You look like that picture I have at the office,'' Mr. Jack had started. ``Not a line, not a wrinkle. I look like an old man, compared,'' and he had picked up his photograph with the red Christmas bow still on it. ``Look, an old man. Will you wear pink when you're sixty?''

``Darling, I love that photograph. I'm going to put it on my dresser.''

``I guess it's children make a woman old. A man gets old anyhow.'' After a minute he went on, ``People must think the curse is on me, seeing you fresh as an apple and me old and gray.''

``I'll give you a medical certificate, framed, if you like,'' Miss Ada had said.