But there must be some
response in her, some--some--"
"Deviltry?" suggested Austin.
His pretty wife laughed and dropped one knee over the other, leaning
back to watch him finish his good-night cigarette. After a moment her
face grew grave, and she bent forward.
"Speaking of Rosamund a moment ago reminds me of something else she
wrote--it's about Alixe. Have you heard anything?"
"Not a word," said Austin, with a frank scowl, "and don't want to."
"It's only this--that Alixe is ill. Nobody seems to know what the matter
is; nobody has seen her. But she's at Clifton, with a couple of nurses,
and Rosamund heard rumours that she is very ill indeed. . . . People go
to Clifton for shattered nerves, you know."
"Yes; for bridge-fidgets, neurosis, pip, and the various jumps that
originate in the simpler social circles. What's the particular matter
with her? Too many cocktails? Or a dearth of grand slams?"
"You are brutal, Austin. Besides, I don't know. She's had a perfectly
dreary life with her husband.
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