agant, absurd.

And Clayton Spencer suffered. To draw him as he stood in the club that
last year of our peace, 1916, is to draw him not only with his virtues
but with his faults; his over emphasis on small things; his jealousy for
his dignity; his hatred of the conspicuous and the unusual.

When, after the informal manner of clubs, the party went in to dinner,
he was having one of the bad hours of his life to that time. And when,
as was inevitable, the talk of the rather serious table turned to the
war, it seemed to him that Natalie, gorgeous and painted, represented
the very worst of the country he loved, indifference, extravagance, and
ostentatious display.

But Natalie was not America. Thank God, Natalie was not America.

Already with the men she was having a triumph. The women, soberly clad,
glanced at each other with raised eye-brows and cynical smiles. Above
the band, already playing in the ballroom, Clayton could hear old Terry
Mackenzie paying Natalie extravagant, flagrant compliments.

"You should be sitting in the sun, or on a balcony," he was saying, his
eyes twinkling. "And pretty gentlemen with long curls and their hats
tucked under their arms should be feeding you nightingale tongues, or
whatever it is you eat."

"Bugs," said Natalie.

"But--tell me," Terry bent toward her, and Mrs. Terry kept fascinated
eyes on him. "Tell me, lovely creature--aren't peacocks unlucky?"

"Are they? What bad luck can happen to me because I dress like this?"

"Frightfully bad luck," said Terry, jovially. "Some one will undoubtedly
carry you away, in the course of the evening, and go madly through the
world hunting a marble balustrade to set you on. I'll do it myself if
you'll give me any encouragement."

Perhaps, had Clayton Spencer been entirely honest with himself that
night, he would have acknowledged that he had had a vague hope of seeing
Audrey at the club. Cars came up, discharged their muffled occupants
under the awning and drove away again. Delight and Mrs. Haverford
arrived and he danced with Delight, to her great anxiety lest she might
not dance well. Graham came very late, in the wake of Marion Hayden.

But Audrey did not appear.

He waited until the New-year came in. The cotillion was on then, and the
favors for the midnight figure were gilt cornucopias filled with loose
flowers. The lights went out for a moment on the hour, the twelve
strokes were rung on a triangle in the orchestra, and there was a