And yet——
“Della, do you think Margaret is happy?” asked Frank one day, as he and his sister and Ned were watching the sunset from the west veranda. Margaret had gone into the house, pleading a headache as an excuse for leaving them.
Della was silent. It was Ned who answered, indignantly.
“Why, Frank, of course she’s happy!”
“I’m not so—sure,” hesitated Frank. Then Mrs. Merideth spoke.
“She’s happy, yes; but she’s—restless.”
Frank leaned forward.
“That’s it exactly,” he declared with conviction. “She’s restless—and what’s the matter? That’s what I want to know.”
“Nonsense! it’s just high spirits,” cut in Ned, with an impatient gesture. “Margaret’s perfectly happy. Doesn’t she laugh and sing and motor and play tennis all day?”
“Yes,” retorted his brother, “she does; but behind it all there’s a curious something that I can’t get at. It is as if she were—were trying to get away from something—something within herself.”