“Not at all. I had an idea George was depressed about something, and merely wondered if he could be making such a cheerful sound.” And Fanny resumed her creaking.
“Is she right, George?” his mother asked quickly, leaning forward in her chair to peer at him through the dusk. “You didn’t eat a very hearty dinner, but I thought it was probably because of the warm weather. Are you troubled about anything?”
“No!” he said angrily.
“That’s good. I thought we had such a nice day, didn’t you?”
“I suppose so,” he muttered, and, satisfied, she leaned back in her chair; but “Fra Diavolo” was not revived. After a time she rose, went to the steps, and stood for several minutes looking across the street. Then her laughter was faintly heard.
“Are you laughing about something?” Fanny inquired.
“Pardon?” Isabel did not turn, but continued her observation of what had interested her upon the opposite side of the street.
“I asked: Were you laughing at something?”
“Yes, I was!” And she laughed again. “It’s that funny, fat old Mrs. Johnson. She has a habit of sitting at her bedroom window with a pair of opera-glasses.”
“Really!”