Dangerous Days | Page 6

think it too much money for the service he will be able to
give for the first year or two."

And, although she had let it go at that, he had felt in her a keen
resentment. Graham had got a car of his own, was using it hard, if the
bills the chauffeur presented were an indication, and Natalie had
overdrawn her account two thousand five hundred dollars.
The evening wore on. Two tables of bridge were going, with Denis
Nolan sitting in at one. Money in large amounts was being written in on
the bridge scores. The air of the room was heavy with smoke, and all
the men and some of the women were drinking rather too much. There
were splotches of color under the tan in Graham's cheeks, and even
Natalie's laughter had taken on a higher note.
Chris's words rankled in Clayton Spencer's mind. A step from the
Saturday night carouse. How much better was this sort of thing? A dull
party, driven to cards and drink to get through the evening. And what
sort of home life were he and Natalie giving the boy? Either this, or the
dreary evenings when they were alone, with Natalie sifting with folded
hands, or withdrawing to her boudoir upstairs, where invariably she
summoned Graham to talk to him behind closed doors.
He went into the library and shut the door. The room rested him, after
the babble across. He lighted a cigar, and stood for a moment before
Natalie's portrait. It had been painted while he was abroad at, he
suspected, Rodney's instigation. It left him quite cold, as did Natalie
herself.
He could look at it dispassionately, as he had never quite cared to
regard Natalie. Between them, personally, there was always the
element she never allowed him to forget, that she had given him a son.
This was Natalie herself, Natalie at forty-one, girlish, beautiful, fretful
and - selfish. Natalie with whom he was to live the rest of his life, who
was to share his wealth and his future, and with whom he shared not a
single thought in common.
He had a curious sense of disloyalty as he sat down at his desk and
picked up a pad and pencil. But a moment later he had forgotten her, as
he had forgotten the party across the hall. He had work to do. Thank
God for work.

CHAPTER II
Natalie was in bed when he went up-stairs. Through the door of his
dressing-room he could see her lying, surrounded by papers. Natalie's
handsome bed was always covered with things, her handkerchief, a
novel, her silk dressing-gown flung over the footboard, sometimes bits
of dress materials and lace. Natalie did most of her planning in bed.
He went in and, clearing a space, sat down on the foot of the bed,
facing her. Her hair was arranged in a loose knot on top of her head,
and there was a tiny space, perhaps a quarter of an inch, slightly darker
than the rest. He realized with a little start that she had had her hair
touched up during his absence. Still, she looked very pretty, her skin
slightly glistening with its night's bath of cold cream, her slim arms
lying out on the blue silk eiderdown coverlet.
"I told Doctor Haverford to-night that we would like to give him a car,
Natalie," he began directly. It was typical of him, the "we."
"A car? What for?"
"To ride about in, my dear. It's rather a large parish, you know. And I
don't feel exactly comfortable seeing him tramping along when most
people are awheel. He's not very young."
"He'll kill himself, that's all."
"Well, that's rather up to Providence, of course."
"You are throwing a sop to Providence, aren't you?" she asked
shrewdly. "Throwing bread on the waters! I daresay he angled for it.
You're easy, Clay. Give you a good dinner - it was a nice dinner, wasn't
it?"
"A very nice dinner," he assented. But at the tone she looked up.
"Well, what was wrong?" she demanded. "I saw when I went out that
you were angry about something. Your face was awful."

"Oh, come now, Natalie," he protested. "It wasn't anything of the sort.
The dinner was all right. The guests were - all right. I may have
unconsciously resented your attitude about Doctor Haverford. Certainly
he didn't angle for it, and I had no idea of throwing a sop to
Providence."
"That isn't what was wrong at dinner."
"Do you really want me to tell you?"
"Not if it's too disagreeable."
"Good heavens, Natalie. One would think I bullied you!"
"Oh, no, you don't bully. It's worse. It's the way you look. Your face
sets. Well?"
"I didn't feel unpleasant. It's rather my misfortune