for feeling it. He had gone
abroad for certain Italian contracts and had obtained them. A year or
two, if the war lasted so long, and he would be on his feet at last,
after years of struggle to keep his organization together through the
hard times that preceded the war. He would be much more than on his
feet. Given three more years of war, and he would be a very rich man.

And now that the goal was within sight, he was finding that it was not
money he wanted. There were some things money could not buy. He had
always spent money. His anxieties had not influenced his scale of
living. Money, for instance, could not buy peace for the world; or
peace for a man, either. It had only one value for a man; it gave him
independence of other men, made him free.

"Three things," said the rector, apropos of something or other, and
rather oratorically, "are required by the normal man. Work, play, and
love. Assure the crippled soldier that he has lost none of these, and--"

Work and play and love. Well, God knows he had worked. Play? He would
have to take up golf again more regularly. He ought to play three times
a week. Perhaps he could take a motor-tour now and then, too. Natalie
would like that.

Love? He had not thought about love very much. A married man of
forty-five certainly had no business thinking about love. No, he
certainly did not want love. He felt rather absurd, even thinking about
it. And yet, in the same flash, came a thought of the violent passions
of his early twenties. There had been a time when he had suffered
horribly because Natalie had not wanted to marry him. He was glad all
that was over. No, he certainly did not want love.

He drew a long breath and straightened up.

"How about those plans, Rodney?" he inquired genially. "Natalie says you
have them ready to look over."

"I'll bring them round, any time you say."

"To-morrow, then. Better not lose any time. Building is going to be a
slow matter, at the best."

"Slow and expensive," Page added. He smiled at his host, but Clayton
Spencer remained grave.

"I've been away," he said, "and I don't know what Natalie and you have
cooked up between you. But just remember this: I want a comfortable
country house. I don't want a public library."

Page looked uncomfortable. The move into the drawing-room covered his
uneasiness, but he found a moment later on to revert to the subject.

"I have tried to carry out Natalie's ideas, Clay," he said. "She wanted
a