“Why try?” interposed North.
“I suppose you take some interest in your own child?” retorted Mrs. North. “I daresay you have not noticed it, but she is looking wretchedly ill.”
North relapsed into silence and continued to watch Mansfield’s preparation on the lawn.
“Have you noticed it?” asked his wife, her voice shrill now with exasperation.
“Yes,” said North.
“Very well then, why can’t you take some interest? Why can’t you ever talk things over with me like other husbands do with their wives? And it isn’t only that she looks ill; she’s altered—she isn’t the same girl she was even a year ago. And people remark on it. She isn’t popular like she used to be. People seem afraid of her.”
She had secured North’s attention now. The drawn lines on his face deepened. There was anxiety as well as irritation in his glances.
“Have you spoken to her? Tried to find out what is wrong?”
“No,” said Mrs. North. “At least I have tried, but it’s impossible to get anything out of her. It’s like talking to a stranger. Really, sometimes I’m frightened of her. It sounds ridiculous, of course, but there it is. And we used to be such good friends and tell each other everything.”
“I am afraid she has never really got over Dick’s death,” said North, his manner appreciably gentler. “And possibly her marriage so soon after was not the wisest thing.”