Mark had listened to interminable arguments upon this vexed question. But in Betty's tone and manner he caught a glimpse of a spectre.
"Your life is not sad," he said.
"I'm one of the lucky ones," she replied hastily "We were speaking of your book."
"Hang the book," said Mark impatiently "What is that to me in comparison with——" He stopped abruptly, got up from his chair, paced the length of the room, and came back.
"You are happy—are you not?" he asked. They were alone in the drawing-room, filled with the pictures and china which had come out of the saloon at The Whim. Archibald was presiding over one of his innumerable committees. Looking at Betty as she sat amongst things familiar to Mark from childhood, it was difficult to believe that she was a married woman. She still retained a bloom of maidenhood, a daintiness and freshness. Her face suggested the nymph rather than the matron.
"Of course I am happy," she replied; then she added in a whisper: "Mark, I ought to be happy, but I am a rebel."
"All women are rebels, Betty. Against what in particular do you rebel?"
"I oughtn't to tell you, but—but I must. I suppose I am the many-sided woman, who ought to have half a dozen husbands. I am interested in so many things. I like to browse here and there. But Archie doesn't care about anything or anybody outside his own vineyard. He is going up and up and I am—falling! Oh, I'm disloyal, but I must speak. It comes to this: Archie loves me and of course I love him, but we—we have nothing to say to each other when we're alone."
She sat, twisting her fingers, staring forlornly at the carpet. Mark burst into speech. At the sound of his voice, still so youthful in quality, she raised her head, smiling, eager, intent.
"Why, Betty, we all get blue at times, and sigh for what we've not got. There are women, no doubt, who are fatly content with their lives, but I don't suppose they go up or down. One pictures them in one spot, doing the same stupid thing, saying the same stupid thing for ever and ever. I think you're in a healthy state. When we feel that we are going down, we begin to beat our wings and flap upwards. Some saints, possibly, might be justified in taking a rest-cure; they are the ones who never do it."