The evening breeze came; the bamboo shades on the veranda clicked and rasped; the loose edges of the manuscript curled. "All I want is to be happy!" she said aloud, as if she were asking for something of such ordinary value that God would readily accord it to her because there was so little demand for the commodity. What did you do when your father went on trips to other islands?" "Took off my shoes and stockings and played in the lagoon. And, yet, I don't know. “There have been other times,” he said a little sadly. The world, she discovered, with these matters barred had no particular place for her at all, nothing for her to do, except a functionless existence varied by calls, tennis, selected novels, walks, and dusting in her father’s house. A new restlessness seemed to have stolen in upon her. These fellows must be right,” he added thoughtfully, “and yet—there’s a mystery somewhere. “Excellent fellow!” he answered a little irrelevantly. The door to the room in question was closed.
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