“It is,” she answered deliberately. “When you are older you will realize it. Sleep is the best.”
He bent towards her. The light in his eyes had blazed out.
“You know in your heart,” he said, “that it is not true. You have brains, and you are as much of an artist as your fettered life permits you to be. You know very well that knowledge is best.”
“Do you believe,” she answered, “that I—I take myself not personally but as a type—am as happy as they are?”
She moved her parasol to where the village lay beyond the trees. He hesitated.
“Madam,” he answered gravely, “I know too little of your life to answer your question.”
She shrugged her shoulders. For a moment her parasol hid her face.
“We are quite à la mode, are we not, my dear Peggy?” she remarked, with a curious little laugh. “Philosophy upon the village green. Gilbert, tell them to drive on.”
She turned deliberately to Macheson.