“Whose distracted about what?” I asked.
But Hannah would say no more, and left me a pray to doubt and fear.
Alas, Hannah was right. There was something wrong in the house. Coming home as I had done, full of the joy of no rising bell or French grammar, or meat pie on Mondays from Sunday’s roast, I had noticed nothing.
I fear I am one who lives for the Day only, and as such I beleive that when people smile they are happy, forgetfull that to often a smile conceals an aching and tempestuous Void within.
Now I was to learn that the demon Strife had entered my domacile, there to make his—or her—home. I do not agree with that poet, A. J. Ryan, date forgoten, who observed:
Better a day of strife
Than a Century of sleep.
Although naturaly no one wishes to sleep for a Century, or even approxamately.
There was Strife in the house. The first way I noticed it, aside from Hannah’s anonamous remark, was by observing that Leila was mopeing. She acted very strangely, giving me a pair of pink hoze without more than a hint on my part, and not sending me out of the room when Carter Brooks came in to tea the next day.
I had staid at home, fearing that if I went out I should purchace some crepe de chene combinations I had been craving in a window, and besides thinking it possable that Tom would drop in to renew our relations of yesterday, not remembering that there was a Ball Game.
Mother having gone out to the Country Club, I put my hair on top of my head, thus looking as adult as possable. Taking a new detective story of Jane’s under my arm, I descended the staircase to the library.