"And the millions of others, men and women?"
"They copy those on top as fast as they can; the simple life is either compulsory or an affectation…. I don't care for the unexpressive millions!"
(A Cairy phrase—Vickers recognized the mint.)
Isabelle rose, and drawing aside the curtains, looked out at the snowy gardens.
"See how stunning the poplars are against the white background! Do you remember, Vick, when we ran away from school and came up here together and spent two nights while they were telegraphing all over for us? What a different world! … Well, good night, Buddie,—I must sleep up."
Yes, thought Vickers, as he lighted another cigarette, what a different world! That summed up the months since he had taken the steamer at Cherbourg. And what different people! Had he stood still while Isabelle and her friends had expanded, thrown off limitations? For her and the many others like her the intoxicating feast of life seemed to have been spread lavishly. With full purses and never sated appetites they rushed to the tables,—all running, out of breath, scenting opportunities, avid to know, to feel, to experience! "We are passing through another renaissance," as Gossom had pompously phrased it. But with what a difference!
To-night as Vickers looked across the still white fields from his bedroom window, he was less concerned with the national aspect of the case than with what this renaissance meant to his sister. Even with the aid of the great Potts she could never keep the nerve-racking pace that she had set herself. And yet in actual expenditure of force, either mental or physical, what Isabelle did or any of her acquaintance did was not enough to tire healthy, full-grown women. There was maladjustment somewhere. What ailed this race that was so rapidly becoming neurasthenic as it flowered?
One thing was plain,—that so far as emotional satisfaction went Isabelle's marriage was null, merely a convention like furniture. And John, as Vickers recognized in spite of his brother-in-law's indifference to him, was a good husband. Fortunately Isabelle, in spite of all her talk, was not the kind to fill an empty heart with another love…. A suspicion of that had crossed his mental vision, but had faded almost at once…. Isabelle was another sort!
CHAPTER XLVII
Isabelle had agreed to stay out the week with Vickers, and in spite of her restlessness, her desire to be doing something new, the old self in her—the frank, girlish, affectionate self—revived, as it always did when she was alone with her brother. He said:—