Becky felt that it was good of everybody to take so much trouble. She really didn't care in the least. She occupied herself steadily with each day's routine. She bent her head over the fine embroidery of a robe she was making for Mary. She cut the flowers for the vases and bowls, she recited nursery rhymes to Fiddle, entrancing that captious young person with "Oranges and Lemons" and "Lavender's Blue." She read aloud to the Judge, planned menus for Aunt Claudia, and was in fact such an angel in the house that Truxton, after three days of it, protested.
"Oh, what's the matter with Becky, Mums?"
"Why?"
"She hasn't any pep."
"I know."
"Isn't she well?"
"I have tried to have her see a doctor. But she won't. She insists that she is all right——"
"She is not. She is no more like the old Becky than champagne is like—milk—— Becky was the kind that—went to your head—Mums. You know that—sparkling."
"I have wondered," Mrs. Beaufort said, slowly, "if anything happened while I was away."