n is changing. The old selfish idea of saving our own souls has
given way largely to the saving of others, by giving them a chance to
redeem themselves. Decent living conditions--"

He had gone on, but Clayton had not listened very intently. He had been
wondering if happiness was not the thing he had somehow missed. It was
then that he had decided to give the car. If, after all, that would make
for the rector's happiness--

"I don't want to find fault with you, Natalie," he said gravely. "I
would like to see you happy. Sometimes I think you are not. I have my
business, but you have nothing to do, and--I suppose you wouldn't be
interested in war-work, would you? There are a lot of committees, and
since I've been in England I realize what a vast amount is needed.
Clothes, you know, and bandages, and--well, everything."

"Nothing to do," she looked up, her eyes wide and indignant. "But of
course you would think that. This house runs itself, I suppose."

"Let's be honest, Natalie," he said, with a touch of impatience.
"Actually how much time each day do you give this house? You have plenty
of trained servants. An hour? Two hours?"

"I'll not discuss it with you." She took up a typewritten sheet
and pretended to read it carefully. Clayton had a half-humorous,
half-irritated conviction that if he was actually hunting happiness he
had begun his search for it rather badly. He took the paper from her,
gently.

"What's this?" he inquired. "Anything I should not see?"

"Decorator's estimates for the new house." Her voice was resentful.
"You'll have to see them some time."

"Library curtains, gray Chippendale velvet, gold gimp, faced with
colonial yellow," he read an item picked at random, "two thousand
dollars! That's going some for curtains, isn't it?"

"It's not too much for that sort of thing."

"But, look here, Natalie," he expostulated. "This is to be a country
house, isn't it? I thought you wanted chintzed and homey things. This
looks like a city house in the country."

He glanced down at the total. The hangings alone, with a tapestry or
two, were to be thirty-five thousand dollars. He whistled.

"Hangings alone! And--what sort of a house has Rodney planned, anyhow?"

"Italian, with a sunken garden. The landscape estimates are there, too."

He did not look at them.

"It seems to me you and Rodney have been pretty busy while I've been
away," he remarked. "Well, I want you to be happy, my dear. Only--I
don't