"Well, well, well!" he said, gazing at her with undisguised admiration. "Do you know you positively don't look a dashed day older, Maudie? It's amazing."
And indeed the years had dealt lightly with the erstwhile Maudie Montrose. A little more matronly, perhaps, than the girl with the hourglass figure who had played the Saint Bernard dog to the thirsty wayfarers at the old Criterion, she still made a distinct impression on the eye, and the landlord of the Emsworth Arms, his growing son Percy, and the half dozen Shropshire lads who were popping up the establishment's outer wall had stamped her with the seal of their popeyed approval. Her entrance had been in the nature of a social triumph.
"It's astounding," said Gally. "One gasps. Put you in a bathing suit, add you to the line of contestants at any seaside beauty competition, and you would still have the judges whooping and blowing kisses and asking you if you were doing anything next Saturday night."
It was the sort of tribute a thousand mellowed clients had paid her across the bar in the old days, and Maudie, who had simpered indulgently then, simpered indulgently now.
(from Pigs Have Wings, by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)
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