“Have you had the doctor?” inquired her husband.
“Oh, no, it isn’t as bad as that. Just a little fever.”
“Very well. I’ll be back presently.” He took up his hat and went out.
Edith, instead of joining her sister, began to walk aimlessly about the room. She had with difficulty concealed her agitation from Donald, and, now that he had gone, she still could not decide whether or not it would be wisdom on her part to confide in her sister. She felt the necessity of confiding in someone.
Alice presently observed the nervousness, and commented upon it in her usual frank way. “For heaven’s sake, Edith,” she remarked, “sit down. Don’t walk about like that. You make me nervous. What’s the matter with you, anyway?”
“Oh, nothing!” Edith threw herself dispiritedly into a chair, and, with an expression which bespoke an utter weariness of spirit, gazed moodily at her hands, roughened and red from the washing of dishes.
“Nothing?” said Alice, looking at her closely. “You look as though you had lost your last friend.”
“Perhaps I have.” The answer was significant, although to Alice it meant nothing.
“What do you mean by that?” she inquired. “I think you might try to be a little more agreeable. It wouldn’t hurt you any. If you are going to sit here and hand out chunks of gloom all the evening, I think I’ll go home.” It was characteristic of Alice to be determinedly cheerful on all occasions, a trait born not so much of any inherent optimism as of a dislike for being made uncomfortable.
Edith looked at her hesitatingly. “Don’t mind me, Alice,” she presently observed, in an apologetic voice, “I’m worried.”