“Not particularly.” Mrs. Rogers’ voice was discouraging.
“Anything wrong?”
“No.”
“You haven’t seemed yourself for the past week. You don’t seem to take any interest in things.”
“What things?” inquired Edith, with sudden asperity. She took a sufficient interest in the things that seemed worth while to her, she well enough knew, but they were not those which made up her present surroundings.
Donald seemed hurt at her tone. He regarded her with an injured expression.
“Why,” he ventured hesitatingly, “all the things that make up our life—our home.”
The suggestion was not happy. It was, indeed, those very things that Edith had been mentally reviewing in her inner consciousness throughout the evening, and her conclusions had not been in their favor.
“The steam pipes, I suppose,” she returned scornfully, “and the price of eggs, and whether we are going to be able to pay our bills next month or not.”