toddling children to the park and playing second assistant nursemaid. I’m too old — or too young. I’ve only got ten years to go, according to the Bible, and I want to have my fun. I’ve sown. I want to reap. My teeth are pretty good, and so is my stomach. They’re better than yours will be at my age, for all your smart new dentists. So are my heart and my arteries and my liver and my nerves. Well. I don’t want luxury. What I want is leisure. I want to do the things I’ve wanted to do for forty years, and couldn’t. I want, if I feel like it, to start to learn French and read Jane Austen and stay in bed till noon. I never could stay in bed till noon, and I know I can’t learn now, but I’m going to do it once, if it kills me. I’m too old to bring up a second crop of children, I want to play.