he was architect for the many, had done the room, with its plainly
paneled walls, the over-mantel with an old painting inset, its lion
chairs, its two console tables with each its pair of porcelain jars.
Clayton liked the dignity of the room, but there were times when he and
Natalie sat at the great table alone, with only the candles for light
and the rest of the room in a darkness from which the butler emerged at
stated intervals and retreated again, when he felt the oppression of it.
For a dinner party, with the brilliant colors of the women's gowns, it
was ideal. For Natalie and himself alone, with the long silences
between them that seemed to grow longer as the years went on, it was
inexpressibly dreary.

He was frequently aware that both Natalie and himself were talking for
the butler's benefit.

From the room his eyes traveled to Graham, sitting alone, uninterested,
dull and somewhat flushed. And on Graham, too, he fixed that clear
appraising gaze that had vaguely disconcerted Natalie. The boy had had
too much to drink, and unlike the group across the table, it had made
him sullen and quiet. He sat there, staring moodily at the cloth and
turning his glass around in fingers that trembled somewhat.

Then he found himself involved in the conversation.

"London as dark as they say?" inquired Christopher Valentine. He was a
thin young man, with a small, affectedly curled mustache. Clayton did
not care for him, but Natalie found him amusing. "I haven't been over--"
he really said 'ovah'--"for ages. Eight months or so."

"Very dark. Hard to get about."

"Most of the fellows I know over there are doing something. I'd like to
run over, but what's the use? Nobody around, street's dark, no gayety,
nothing."

"No. You'd better stay at home. They--don't particularly want visitors,
anyhow."

"Unless they go for war contracts, eh?" said Valentine pleasantly, a way
he had of taking the edge off the frequent impertinence of his speech.
"No, I'm not going over. We're not popular over there, I understand.
Keep on thinking we ought to take a hand in the dirty mess."

Graham spoke, unexpectedly.

"Well, don't you think we ought?"

"If you want my candid opinion, no. We've been waving a red flag called
the Monroe Doctrine for some little time, as a signal that we won't
stand for Europe coming over here and grabbing anything. If we're going
to be consistent, we can't do any grabbing in Europe, can we?"

Clayton eyed him