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 a