er. He, and not Natalie,
arranged the seating, ordered the flowers, and planned the menu. He took
considerable pride in it; he liked to think that it was both beautiful
and dignified. His father had been president before him, and he liked to
think that he was carrying on his father's custom with the punctilious
dignity that had so characterized him.

He was dressed early. Natalie had been closeted with Madeleine, her
maid, and a hair-dresser, for hours. As he went down-stairs he could
hear her voice raised in querulous protest about something.

When he went into the library Buckham was there stooping over the fire,
his austere old face serious and intent.

"Well, another year almost gone, Buckham!" he said.

"Yes, Mr. Spencer."

"It would be interesting to know what the New-year holds."

"I hope it will bring you peace and happiness, sir."

"Thank you."

And after Buckham had gone he thought that rather a curious New-year's
wish. Peace and happiness! Well, God knows he wanted both. A vague
comprehension of the understanding the upper servants of a household
acquire as to the inner life of the family stirred in him; how much they
knew and concealed under their impassive service.

When Natalie came down the staircase a few minutes later she was swathed
in her chinchilla evening wrap, and she watched his face, after her
custom when she expected to annoy him, with the furtive look that he had
grown to associate with some unpleasantness.

"I hate dressing for a ball at this hour," she said, rather
breathlessly. "I don't feel half-dressed by midnight."

Madeleine, in street costume, was behind her with a great box.

"She has something for my hair," she explained. Her tone was nervous,
but he was entirely unsuspicious.

"You don't mind if I don't go on to Page's, do you? I'm rather tired,
and I ought to stay at the club as late as I can."

"Of course not. I shall probably pick up some people, anyhow. Everybody
is going on."

In the car she chattered feverishly and he listened, lapsing into one of
the silences which her talkative spells always enforced.

"What flowers are you having?" she asked, finally.

"White lilacs and pussy-willow. Did your orchids come?"

"Thanks, yes. But I'm not wearing them. My gown is flame color. They
simply shrieked."

"Flame color?"

"A sort of orange," she explained. And, in a slightly defiant tone:
"Rodney's is a costume dance, you know."

"Do you mean you are in fancy