DANGEROUS DAYS

by Mary Roberts Rinehart

CHAPTER I

Natalie Spencer was giving a dinner. She was not an easy hostess. Likemost women of futile lives she lacked a sense of proportion, andthe small and unimportant details of the service absorbed her. Suchconversation as she threw at random, to right and left, was trivial anddistracted. 

Yet the dinner was an unimportant one. It had been given with an eyemore to the menu than to the guest list, which was characteristic ofNatalie's mental processes. It was also characteristic that when thefinal course had been served without mishap, and she gave a sigh ofrelief before the gesture of withdrawal which was a signal to the otherwomen, that she had realized no lack in it. The food had been good, theservice satisfactory. She stood up, slim and beautifully dressed, andgathered up the women with a smile. 

The movement found Doctor Haverford, at her left, unprepared and withhis coffee cup in his hand. He put it down hastily and rose, and thesmall cup overturned in its saucer, sending a smudge of brown into thecloth. 

"Dreadfully awkward of me!" he said. The clergyman's smile of apologywas boyish, but he was suddenly aware that his hostess was annoyed. Hecaught his wife's amiable eyes on him, too, and they said quite plainlythat one might spill coffee at home--one quite frequently did, toconfess a good man's weakness--but one did not do it at NatalieSpencer's table. The rector's smile died into a sheepish grin. 

For the first time since dinner began Natalie Spencer had a clear viewof her husband's face. Not that that had mattered particularly, but theflowers had been too high. For a small dinner, low flowers, always. Shewould speak to the florist. But, having glanced at Clayton, standingtall and handsome at the head of the table, she looked again. His eyeswere fixed on her with a curious intentness. He seemed to be surveyingher, from the top of her burnished hair to the very gown she wore. His gaze made her vaguely uncomfortable. It was unsmiling, appraising, almost--only that was incredible in Clay--almost hostile. 

Through the open door the half dozen women trailed out, Natalie inwhite, softly rustling as she moved, Mrs. Haverford in black velvet, a trifle tight over her ample figure, Marion Hayden, in a very briefgarment she would have called a frock, perennial debutante that she was, rather negligible Mrs. Terry Mackenzie, and trailing behind the others, frankly loath to leave the men, Audrey Valentine. Clayton Spencer's eyesrested on Audrey with a smile of amused toleration, on her outrageouslylow green gown, that was somehow casually elegant, on her long greenear-rings and jade chain, on the cigaret between her slim fingers. 

Audrey's audacity always amused him. In the doorway she turned andnonchalantly surveyed the room. 

"For heaven's sake, hurry!" she apostrophized the table. "We are goingto knit--I feel it. And don't give Chris anything more to drink, Clay. He's had enough. "

She went on, a slim green figure, moving slowly and reluctantly towardthe drawing-room, her head held high, a little smile still on her lips. But, alone for a moment, away from curious eyes, her expression changed, her smile faded, her lovely, irregular face took on a curious intensity. What a devilish evening! Chris drinking too much, talking wildly, andalways with furtive eyes on her. Chris! Oh, well, that was life, shesupposed. 

She stopped before a long mirror and gave a bit of careless attention toher hair. With more care she tinted her lips again with a cosmetic stickfrom the tiny, diamond-studded bag she carried. Then she turned andsurveyed the hall and the library beyond. A new portrait of Natalie wasthere, hanging on the wall under a shaded light, and she wandered in, still with her cigaret, and surveyed it. Natalie had everything. Theportrait showed it. It was beautiful, smug, complacent. 

Mrs. Valentine's eyes narrowed slightly. She stood there, thinking aboutNatalie. She had not everything, after all. There was something shelacked. Charm, perhaps. She was a cold woman. But, then, Clay was cold, too. He was even a bit hard. Men said that; hard and ambitious, althoughhe was popular. Men liked strong men. It was only the weak they deploredand loved. Poor Chris!

She lounged into the drawing-room, smiling her slow, cool smile. Inthe big, uncarpeted alcove, where stood Natalie's great painted piano, Marion Hayden was playing softly, carefully posed for the entrance ofthe men. Natalie was sitting with her hands folded, in the exact centerof a peacock-blue divan. The others were knitting. 

"Very pretty effect, Toots!" Audrey called. And Miss Hayden gave her theunashamed smile of one woman of the world to another. 

Audrey had a malicious impulse. She sat down beside Natalie, and againstthe blue divan her green gown shrieked a discord. She was vastlyamused when Natalie found an excuse and moved away, to dispose herselfcarefully in a tall, old-gold chair, which framed her like a picture. 

"We were talking of men, my dear, " said Mrs. Haverford, placidlyknitting. 

"Of course, " said Audrey, flippantly. 

"Of what it is that they want more than anything else in the world. "

"Children-sons, " put in Mrs. Mackenzie. She was a robust, big woman withkindly eyes, and she was childless. 

"Women!" called Toots Hayden. She was still posed, but she had stoppedplaying. Mrs. Haverford's eyes rested on her a moment, disapprovingly. 

"What do you say, Natalie?" Audrey asked. 

"I hadn't thought about it. Money, probably. "

"You are all wrong, " said Audrey, and lighted a fresh cigaret. "Theywant different things at different ages. That's why marriage is sucha rotten failure. First they want women; any woman will do, really. Sothey marry--any woman. Then they want money. After that they want powerand place. And when they've got that they begin to want--love. "

"Good gracious, Audrey, what a cynical speech!" said Mrs. Mackenzie. "Ifthey've been married all that time--"

"Oh, tut!" said Audrey, rudely. 

She had the impulse of the unhappy woman to hurt, but she was ratherashamed of herself, too. These women were her friends. Let them go onbelieving that life was a thing of lasting loves, that men were trueto the end, and that the relationships of life were fixed and permanentthings. 

"I'm sorry, " she said. "I was just being clever! Let's talk about thewar. It's the only thing worth talking about, anyhow. "

In the dining-room Clayton Spencer, standing tall and erect, hadwatched the women go out. How typical the party was of Natalie, of hermeticulous care in small things and her indifference or real ignoranceas to what counted. Was it indifference, really, or was it supremecraftiness, the stupidity of her dinners, the general unattractivenessof the women she gathered around her, the ill-assortment of people whohad little in themselves and nothing whatever in common?

Of all the party, only Audrey and the rector had interested himeven remotely. Audrey amused him. Audrey was a curious mixture ofintelligence and frivolity. She was a good fellow. Sometimes he thoughtshe was a nice woman posing as not quite nice. He didn't know. He wasnot particularly analytical, but at least she had been one bit of cheerduring the endless succession of courses. 

The rector was the other, and he was relieved to find Doctor Haverfordmoving up to the vacant place at his right. 

"I've been wanting to see you, Clay, " he said in an undertone. "It'srather stupid to ask you how you found things over there. But I'm goingto do it. "

"You mean the war?"

"There's nothing else in the world, is there?"

"One wouldn't have thought so from the conversation here to-night. "

Clayton Spencer glanced about the table. Rodney Page, the architect, wastelling a story clearly not for the ears of the clergy, and his ownson, Graham, forced in at the last moment to fill a vacancy, was sittingalone, bored and rather sulky, and sipping his third cognac. 

"If you want my opinion, things are bad. "

"For the Allies? Or for us?"

"Good heavens, man, it's the same thing. It is only the Allies who arestanding between us and trouble now. The French are just holding theirown. The British are fighting hard, but they're fighting at home too. Wecan't sit by for long. We're bound to be involved. "

The rector lighted an excellent cigar. 

"Even if we are, " he said, hopefully, "I understand our part of it willbe purely naval. And I believe our navy will give an excellent accountof itself. "

"Probably, " Clay retorted. "If it had anything to fight! But with theGerman fleet bottled up, and the inadvisability of attempting to bombardBerlin from the sea--"

The rector made no immediate reply, and Clayton seemed to expect none. He sat back, tapping the table with long, nervous fingers, and his eyeswandered from the table around the room. He surveyed it all withmuch the look he had given Natalie, a few moments before, searching, appraising, vaguely hostile. Yet it was a lovely room, simple andstately. Rodney Page, who was by way of being decorator for the few, as he was architect for the many, had done the room, with its plainlypaneled walls, the over-mantel with an old painting inset, its lionchairs, its two console tables with each its pair of porcelain jars. Clayton liked the dignity of the room, but there were times when he andNatalie sat at the great table alone, with only the candles for lightand the rest of the room in a darkness from which the butler emerged atstated intervals and retreated again, when he felt the oppression of it. For a dinner party, with the brilliant colors of the women's gowns, itwas ideal. For Natalie and himself alone, with the long silencesbetween them that seemed to grow longer as the years went on, it wasinexpressibly dreary. 

He was frequently aware that both Natalie and himself were talking forthe butler's benefit. 

From the room his eyes traveled to Graham, sitting alone, uninterested, dull and somewhat flushed. And on Graham, too, he fixed that clearappraising gaze that had vaguely disconcerted Natalie. The boy had hadtoo much to drink, and unlike the group across the table, it had madehim sullen and quiet. He sat there, staring moodily at the cloth andturning his glass around in fingers that trembled somewhat. 

Then he found himself involved in the conversation. 

"London as dark as they say?" inquired Christopher Valentine. He was athin young man, with a small, affectedly curled mustache. Clayton didnot care for him, but Natalie found him amusing. "I haven't been over--"he really said 'ovah'--"for ages. Eight months or so. "

"Very dark. Hard to get about. "

"Most of the fellows I know over there are doing something. I'd like torun over, but what's the use? Nobody around, street's dark, no gayety, nothing. "

"No. You'd better stay at home. They--don't particularly want visitors, anyhow. "

"Unless they go for war contracts, eh?" said Valentine pleasantly, a wayhe had of taking the edge off the frequent impertinence of his speech. "No, I'm not going over. We're not popular over there, I understand. Keep on thinking we ought to take a hand in the dirty mess. "

Graham spoke, unexpectedly. 

"Well, don't you think we ought?"

"If you want my candid opinion, no. We've been waving a red flag calledthe Monroe Doctrine for some little time, as a signal that we won'tstand for Europe coming over here and grabbing anything. If we're goingto be consistent, we can't do any grabbing in Europe, can we?"

Clayton eyed him rather contemptuously. 

"We might want to 'grab' as you term it, a share in putting the madmenof Europe into chains, " he said. "I thought you were pro-British, Chris. "

"Only as to clothes, women and filet of sole, " Chris returnedflippantly. Then, seeing Graham glowering at him across the table, hedropped his affectation of frivolity. "What's the use of our going innow?" he argued. "This Somme push is the biggest thing yet. They'regoing through the Germans like a hay cutter through a field. Germanlosses half a million already. "

"And what about the Allies? Have they lost nothing?" This was Clayton'sattorney, an Irishman named Denis Nolan. There had been two n's inthe Denis, originally, but although he had disposed of a part of hisbirthright, he was still belligerently Irish. "What about Rumania? Whatabout the Russians at Lemberg? What about Saloniki?"

"You Irish!" said the rector, genially. "Always fighting the world andeach other. Tell me, Nolan, why is it that you always have individualhumor and collective ill-humor?"

He felt that that was rather neat. But Nolan was regarding himacrimoniously, and Clayton apparently had not heard at all. 

The dispute went on, Chris Valentine alternately flippant and earnest, the rector conciliatory, Graham glowering and silent. Nolan had startedon the Irish question, and Rodney baited him with the prospect ofconscription there. Nolan's voice, full and mellow and strangely sweet, dominated the room. 

But Clayton was not listening. He had heard Nolan air his views before. He was a trifle acid, was Nolan. He needed mellowing, a woman in hislife. But Nolan had loved once, and the girl had died. With the curiousconstancy of the Irish, he had remained determinedly celibate. 

"Strange race, " Clayton reflected idly, as Nolan's voice sang on. "Don'tknow what they want, but want it like the devil. One-woman men, too. Curious!"

It occurred to him then that his own reflection was as odd as thefidelity of the Irish. He had been faithful to his wife. He had neverthought of being anything else. 

He did not pursue that line of thought. He sat back and resumed hisnervous tapping of the cloth, not listening, hardly thinking, butconscious of a discontent that was beyond analysis. 

Clayton had been aware, since his return from the continent and Englanddays before, of a change in himself. He had not recognized it until hereached home. And he was angry with himself for feeling it. He had goneabroad for certain Italian contracts and had obtained them. A year ortwo, 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 thehard times that preceded the war. He would be much more than on hisfeet. 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 notmoney he wanted. There were some things money could not buy. He hadalways spent money. His anxieties had not influenced his scale ofliving. Money, for instance, could not buy peace for the world; orpeace for a man, either. It had only one value for a man; it gave himindependence of other men, made him free. 

"Three things, " said the rector, apropos of something or other, andrather oratorically, "are required by the normal man. Work, play, andlove. 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 wouldhave to take up golf again more regularly. He ought to play three timesa week. Perhaps he could take a motor-tour now and then, too. Nataliewould like that. 

Love? He had not thought about love very much. A married man offorty-five certainly had no business thinking about love. No, hecertainly did not want love. He felt rather absurd, even thinking aboutit. And yet, in the same flash, came a thought of the violent passionsof his early twenties. There had been a time when he had sufferedhorribly because Natalie had not wanted to marry him. He was glad allthat 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 youhave 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 aslow matter, at the best. "

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

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

Page looked uncomfortable. The move into the drawing-room covered hisuneasiness, 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 wanteda sizeable place, you know. A wing for house-parties, and--that sort ofthing. "

Clayton's eyes roamed about the room, where portly Mrs. Haverford wasstill knitting placidly, where the Chris Valentines were quarrelingunder pretense of raillery, where Toots Hayden was smoking a cigaretin a corner and smiling up at Graham, and where Natalie, exquisite andprecise, was supervising the laying out of a bridge table. 

"She would, of course, " he observed, rather curtly, and, moving througha French window, went out onto a small balcony into the night. 

He was irritated with himself. What had come over him? He shook himself, and drew a long breath of the sweet night air. His tall, boyishlystraight figure dominated the little place. In the half-light he looked, indeed, like an overgrown boy. He always looked like Graham's brother, anyhow; it was one of Natalie's complaints against him. But he put thethought of Natalie away, along with his new discontent. By George, itwas something to feel that, if a man could not fight in this war, atleast he could make shells to help end it. Oblivious to the laughter inthe room behind him, the clink of glass as whiskey-and-soda wasbrought in, he planned there in the darkness, new organization, newexpansions--and found in it a great content. 

He was proud of his mills. They were his, of his making. The smalliron foundry of his father's building had developed into the colossalfurnaces that night after night lighted the down-town district like agreat conflagration. He was proud of his mills and of his men. He likedto take men and see them work out his judgment of them. He was not oftenwrong. Take that room behind him: Rodney Page, dilettante, liked bywomen, who called him "Roddie, " a trifle unscrupulous but not entirelya knave, the sort of man one trusted with everything but one's wife;Chris, too--only he let married women alone, and forgot to pay back themoney he borrowed. There was only one man in the room about whom he wasbeginning to mistrust his judgment, and that was his own son. 

Perhaps it was because he had so recently come from lands where millionsof boys like Graham were pouring out their young lives like wine, thatClayton Spencer was seeing Graham with a new vision. He turned andglanced back into the drawing-room, where Graham, in the center of thatmisfit group and not quite himself, was stooping over Marion Hayden. They would have to face that, of course, the woman urge in the boy. Until now his escapades had been boyish ones, a few debts franklyrevealed and as frankly regretted, some college mischiefs, a ratherserious gambling fever, quickly curbed. But never women, thank God. 

But now the boy was through with college, and already he noticedsomething new in their relationship. Natalie had always spoiled him, andnow there were, with increasing frequency, small consultations in herroom when he was shut out, and he was beginning to notice a restraint inhis relations with the boy, as though mother and son had united againsthim. 

He was confident that Natalie was augmenting Graham's allowance from herown. His salary, rather, for he had taken the boy into the business, notas a partner--that would come later--but as the manager of a department. He never spoke to Natalie of money. Her house bills were paid at theoffice without question. But only that day Miss Potter, his secretary, had reported that Mrs. Spencer's bank had called up and he had made gooda considerable overdraft. 

He laid the cause of his discontent to Graham, finally. The boy hadgood stuff in him. He was not going to allow Natalie to spoil him, orto withdraw him into that little realm of detachment in which she lived. Natalie did not need him, and had not, either as a lover or a husband, for years. But the boy did. 

There was a little stir in the room behind. The Haverfords were leaving, and the Hayden girl, who was plainly finding the party dull. Graham waslooking down at her, a tall, handsome boy, with Natalie's blonde hairbut his father's height and almost insolent good looks. 

"Come around to-morrow, " she was saying. "About four. There's always acrowd about five, you know. "

Clayton knew, and felt a misgiving. The Hayden house was a lateafternoon loafing and meeting place for the idle sons and daughters ofthe rich. Not the conservative old families, who had developed a senseof the responsibility of wealth, but of the second generation of easilyacquired money. As she went out, with Graham at her elbow, he heardChris, at the bridge table. 

"Terrible house, the Haydens. Just one step from the Saturday nightcarouse in Clay's mill district. "

When Graham came back, Mrs. Haverford put her hand on his arm. 

"I wish you would come to see us, Graham. Delight so often speaks ofyou. "

Graham stiffened almost imperceptibly. 

"Thanks, I will. " But his tone was distant. 

"You know she comes out this winter. "

"Really?"

"And--you were great friends. I think she misses you a little. "

"I wish I thought so!"

Gentle Mrs. Haverford glanced up at him quickly. 

"You know she doesn't approve of me. "

"Why, Graham!"

"Well, ask her, " he said. And there was a real bitterness under thelightness of his tone. "I'll come, of course, Mrs. Haverford. Thank youfor asking me. I haven't a lot of time. I'm a sort of clerk down at themill, you know. "

Natalie overheard, and her eyes met Clayton's, with a glance ofmalicious triumph. She had been deeply resentful that he had not madeGraham a partner at once. He remembered a conversation they had had afew months before. 

"Why should he have to start at the bottom?" she had protested. "Youhave never been quite fair to him, Clay. " His boyish diminutive hadstuck to him. "You expect him to know as much about the mill now as youdo, after all these years. "

"Not at all. I want him to learn. That's precisely the reason why I'mnot taking him in at once. "

"How much salary is he to have?"

"Three thousand a year. "

"Three thousand! Why, it will take all of that to buy him a car. "

"There are three cars here now; I should think he could manage. "

"Every boy wants his own car. "

"I pay my other managers three thousand, " he had said, still patient. "He will live here. His car can be kept here, without expense. Personally, I think it too much money for the service he will be able togive for the first year or two. "

And, although she had let it go at that, he had felt in her a keenresentment. Graham had got a car of his own, was using it hard, ifthe bills the chauffeur presented were an indication, and Natalie hadoverdrawn her account two thousand five hundred dollars. 

The evening wore on. Two tables of bridge were going, with Denis Nolansitting in at one. Money in large amounts was being written in on thebridge scores. The air of the room was heavy with smoke, and all themen and some of the women were drinking rather too much. There weresplotches of color under the tan in Graham's cheeks, and even Natalie'slaughter had taken on a higher note. 

Chris's words rankled in Clayton Spencer's mind. A step from theSaturday night carouse. How much better was this sort of thing? A dullparty, driven to cards and drink to get through the evening. And whatsort of home life were he and Natalie giving the boy? Either this, orthe dreary evenings when they were alone, with Natalie sifting withfolded hands, or withdrawing to her boudoir upstairs, where invariablyshe summoned Graham to talk to him behind closed doors. 

He went into the library and shut the door. The room rested him, afterthe babble across. He lighted a cigar, and stood for a moment beforeNatalie's portrait. It had been painted while he was abroad at, hesuspected, Rodney's instigation. It left him quite cold, as did Natalieherself. 

He could look at it dispassionately, as he had never quite cared toregard Natalie. Between them, personally, there was always the elementshe never allowed him to forget, that she had given him a son. Thiswas Natalie herself, Natalie at forty-one, girlish, beautiful, fretfuland--selfish. Natalie with whom he was to live the rest of his life, whowas to share his wealth and his future, and with whom he shared not asingle thought in common. 

He had a curious sense of disloyalty as he sat down at his desk andpicked up a pad and pencil. But a moment later he had forgotten her, ashe had forgotten the party across the hall. He had work to do. Thank Godfor work. 

CHAPTER II

Natalie was in bed when he went up-stairs. Through the door of hisdressing-room he could see her lying, surrounded by papers. Natalie'shandsome bed was always covered with things, her handkerchief, a novel, her silk dressing-gown flung over the footboard, sometimes bits of dressmaterials 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, slightlydarker than the rest. He realized with a little start that she had hadher hair touched up during his absence. Still, she looked very pretty, her skin slightly glistening with its night's bath of cold cream, herslim 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. AndI don't feel exactly comfortable seeing him tramping along when mostpeople 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 asked shrewdly. "Throwing bread on the waters! I daresay he angled for it. You're easy, Clay. Give you a good dinner--it was a nice dinner, wasn't it?"

"A very nice dinner, " he assented. But at the tone she looked up. 

"Well, what was wrong?" she demanded. "I saw when I went out that youwere angry about something. Your face was awful. "

"Oh, come now, Natalie, " he protested. "It wasn't anything of thesort. The dinner was all right. The guests were--all right. I may haveunconsciously resented your attitude about Doctor Haverford. Certainlyhe didn't angle for it, and I had no idea of throwing a sop toProvidence. "

"That isn't what was wrong at dinner. "

"Do you really want me to tell you?"

"Not if it's too disagreeable. "

"Good heavens, Natalie. One would think I bullied you!"

"Oh, no, you don't bully. It's worse. It's the way you look. Your facesets. Well?"

"I didn't feel unpleasant. It's rather my misfortune that my face--"

"Didn't you like my gown?"

"Very much. It seemed a trifle low, but you know I always like yourclothes. " He was almost pathetically anxious to make up to her for thatmoment's disloyalty in the library. 

"There!" she said, brushing the papers aside. "Now we're getting atit. Was I anything like as low as Audrey Valentine? Of course not! Herback--You just drive me to despair, Clay. Nothing I do pleases you. Thevery tone of that secretary of yours to-day, when I told her about thatover-draft--it was positively insulting!"

"I don't like overdrafts, " he said, without any irritation. "When youwant extra amounts you have only to let me know. "

"You are always finding fault with me, " she complained. "It's eithermoney, or my clothes, or Graham, or something. " Her eyes filled. Shelooked young and absurdly childish. But a talk he had had with therector was still in his mind. It was while they were still at the table, and Nolan had been attacking the British government. 

"We get out of this world largely what we put into it, " he had said. "You give largely, Clay, and you receive largely. I rejoice in yourprosperity, because you have earned it. "

"You think, then, " he had asked, "that we only receive as we give? Idon't mean material things, of course. "

The rector had fixed him with kindly, rather faded old eyes. "That hasbeen my experience, " he said. "Happiness for instance only comes whenwe forget our eternal search for it, and try to make others happy. Evenreligion is changing. The old selfish idea of saving our own souls hasgiven way largely to the saving of others, by giving them a chance toredeem themselves. Decent living conditions--"

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

"I don't want to find fault with you, Natalie, " he said gravely. "Iwould like to see you happy. Sometimes I think you are not. I have mybusiness, but you have nothing to do, and--I suppose you wouldn't beinterested in war-work, would you? There are a lot of committees, andsince 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 ofcourse 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 plentyof trained servants. An hour? Two hours?"

"I'll not discuss it with you. " She took up a typewritten sheetand pretended to read it carefully. Clayton had a half-humorous, half-irritated conviction that if he was actually hunting happiness hehad 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 withcolonial yellow, " he read an item picked at random, "two thousanddollars! 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 countryhouse, isn't it? I thought you wanted chintzed and homey things. Thislooks like a city house in the country. "

He glanced down at the total. The hangings alone, with a tapestry ortwo, 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 beenaway, " he remarked. "Well, I want you to be happy, my dear. Only--Idon't want to tie up a fortune just now. We may get into this war, andif we do--" He rose, and yawned, his arms above his head. "I'm off tobed, " he said. "Big day to-morrow. I'll want Graham at the office at8:30. "

She had sat up in bed, and was staring at him. Her face was pale. 

"Do you mean that we are going to get into this war?"

"I think it very likely, my dear. "

"But if we do, Graham--"

"We might as well face it. Graham will probably want to go. "

"He'll do nothing of the sort, " she said sharply. "He's all I have. All. Do you think I'm going to send him over there to be cannon-fodder? Iwon't let him go. "

She was trembling violently. 

"I won't want him to go, of course. But if the thing comes--he's of age, you know. "

She eyed him with thinly veiled hostility. 

"You're hard, Clay, " she accused him. "You're hard all the way through. You're proud, too. Proud and hard. You'd want to be able to say yourson was in the army. It's not because you care anything about the war, except to make money out of it. What is the war to you, anyhow? Youdon't like the English, and as for French--you don't even let me have aFrench butler. "

He was not the less angry because he realized the essential truth ofpart of what she said. He felt no great impulse of sympathy with anyof the combatants. He knew the gravity of the situation rather than itstragedy. He did not like war, any war. He saw no reason why men shouldkill. But this war was a fact. He had had no hand in its making, but itwas made. 

His first impulse was to leave her in dignified silence. But she wascrying, and I he disliked leaving her in tears. Dead as was his love forher, and that night, somehow, he knew that it was dead, she was stillhis wife. They had had some fairly happy years together, long ago. Andhe felt the need, too, of justification. 

"Perhaps you are right, Natalie, " he said, after a moment. "I haven'tcared about this war as much as I should. Not the human side of it, anyhow. But you ought to understand that by making shells for theAllies, I am not only making money for myself; they need the shells. And I'll give them the best. I don't intend only to profit by theirmisfortunes. "

She had hardly listened. 

"Then, if we get into it, as you say, you'll encourage Graham to go?"

"I shall allow him to go, if he feels it his duty. "

"Oh, duty, duty! I'm sick of the word. " She bent forward and suddenlycaught one of his hands. "You won't make him go, Clay?" she begged. "You--you'll let him make his own decision?"

"If you will. "

"What do you mean?"

"If you'll keep your hands off, too. We're not in it, yet. God knows Ihope we won't be. But if I promise not to influence him, you must do thesame thing. "

"I haven't any more influence over Graham than that, " she said, andsnapped her finger. But she did not look at him. 

"Promise, " he said, steadily. 

"Oh, all right. " Her voice and face were sulky. She looked much asGraham had that evening at the table. 

"Is that a promise?"

"Good heavens, do you want me to swear to it?"

"I want you to play fair. That's all. "

She leaned back again among her pillows and gathered her papers. 

"All right, " she said, indifferently. "Have you any preference as tocolor for your rooms in the new house?"

He was sorry for his anger, and after all, these things which seemed sounimportant to him were the things that made up her life. He smiled. 

"You might match my eyes. I'm not sure what color they are. Perhaps youknow. "

But she had not forgiven him. 

"I've never noticed, " she replied. And, small bundle of samples in herhand, resumed her reading and her inspection of textiles. 

"Good night, Natalie. "

"Good night. " She did not look up. 

Outside his wife's door he hesitated. Then he crossed and withoutknocking entered Graham's bedroom. The boy was lounging in a long chairby an open fire. He was in his dressing gown and slippers, and an emptywhiskey-and-soda glass stood beside him on a small stand. Graham wassound asleep. Clayton touched him on the shoulder, but he slept on, hishead to one side, his breathing slow and heavy. It required some littleeffort to waken him. 

"Graham!" said Clayton sharply. 

"Yes. " He stirred, but did not open his eyes. 

"Graham! Wake up, boy. "

Graham sat up suddenly and looked at him. The whites of his eyes werered, but he had slept off the dinner wine. He was quite himself. 

"Better get to bed, " his father suggested. "I'll want you earlyto-morrow. "

"What time, sir?"

He leaned forward and pressed a button beside the mantel-piece. 

"What are you doing that for?"

"Ice water. Awfully thirsty. "

"The servants have gone to bed. Go down and get it yourself. "

Graham looked up at the tone. At his father's eyes, he looked away. 

"Sorry, sir, " he said. "Must have had too much champagne. Wasn't muchelse to do, was there? Mother's parties--my God, what a dreary lot!"

Clayton inspected the ice water carafe on the stand and found it empty. 

"I'll bring you some water from my room, " he said. "And--I don't want tosee you this way again, Graham. When a man cannot take a little wineat his own table without taking too much he fails to be entirely agentleman. "

He went out. When he came back, Graham was standing by the fire in hispajamas, looking young and rather ashamed. Clayton had a flash of thoseearlier days when he had come in to bid the boy good night, and therehad always been that last request for water which was to postpone thefinal switching off of the light. 

"I'm sorry, father. "

Clayton put his hand on the boy's shoulder and patted him. 

"We'll have to do better next time. That's all. "

For a moment the veil of constraint of Natalie's weaving lifted betweenthem. 

"I'm a pretty bad egg, I guess. You'd better shove me off the dock andlet me swim--or drown. "

"I'd hardly like to do that, you know. You are all I have. "

"I'm no good at the mill. "

"You haven't had very much time. I've been a good many years learningthe business. "'

"I'll never be any good. Not there. If there was something to build upit would be different, but it's all done. You've done it. I'm only asort of sublimated clerk. I don't mean, " he added hastily, "that I thinkI ought to have anything more. It's only that--well, the struggle'sover, if you know what I mean. "

"I'll talk to you about that to-morrow. Get to bed now. It's oneo'clock. "

He moved to the doorway. Graham, carafe in hand, stood staring aheadof him. He had the courage of the last whiskey-and-soda, and a sort ofdesperate contrition. 

"Father. "

"Yes, Graham. "

"I wish you'd let me go to France and fly. "

Something like a cold hand seemed to close round Clayton's heart. 

"Fly! Why?"

"Because I'm not doing any good here. And--because I'd like to see if Ihave any good stuff in me. All the fellows are going, " he added, ratherweakly. 

"That's not a particularly worthy reason, is it?"

"It's about as worthy as making money out of shells, when we haven't anyreason for selling them to the Allies more than the Germans, except thatwe can't ship to the Germans. "

He looked rather frightened then. But Clayton was not angry. He sawNatalie's fine hand there, and the boy's impressionable nature. 

"Think that over, Graham, " he said gravely. "I don't believe you quitemean it. Good-night. "

He went across to his own bedroom, where his silk pajamas, neatlyfolded, lay on his painted Louis XVI bed. Under his reading lamp therewas a book. It was a part of Natalie's decorative scheme for the room;it's binding was mauve, to match the hangings. For the first time sincethe room had been done over during his absence he picked up the book. 

"Rodney's idea, for a cent!" he reflected, looking rather grimly at thecover. 

He undressed slowly, his mind full of Graham and the problem hepresented. Then he thought of Natalie, and of the little things thatmade up her life and filled her days. He glanced about the room, beautiful, formal, exquisitely appointed. His father's portrait was gonefrom over the mantel, and an old French water-color hung there instead. That was too bad of Natalie. Or had it been Rodney? He would bring itback. And he gave a fleeting thought to Graham and his request to goabroad. He had not meant it. It was sheer reaction. But he would talk toGraham. 

He lighted a cigaret, and getting into bed turned on his reading lamp. Queer how a man could build, and then find that after all he did notcare for the achievement. It was the building alone that was worthwhile. 

He picked up the book from the table, and opened it casually. 

 "When first I loved I gave my very soul Utterly unreserved to Love's control, But Love deceived me, wrenched my youth away, And made the gold of life forever gray. Long I lived lonely, yet I tried in vain With any other joy to stifle pain; There is no other joy, I learned to know, And so returned to love, as long ago, Yet I, this little while ere I go hence, Love very lightly now, in self defense. "

"Twaddle, " said Clayton Spencer, and put the book away. That was thesort of stuff men like Rodney lived on. In a mauve binding, too. 

After he had put out the light he lay for a long time, staring into thedarkness. It was not love he wanted: he was through with all that. Power was the thing, integrity and power. To yield to no man, to achieveindependence for one's soul--not that he put it that way. He formulatedit, drowsily: 'Not to give a damn for any one, so long as you're right. 'Of course, it was not always possible to know if one was right. Heyawned. His conscious mind was drowsing, and from the depths below, released of the sentry of his waking hours, came the call of his starvedimagination. 

CHAPTER III

There was no moral to be adduced from Graham's waking the next morning. He roused, reluctantly enough, but blithe and hungry. He sang as hesplashed in his shower, chose his tie whistling, and went down thestaircase two steps at a time to a ravenous breakfast. 

Clayton was already at the table in the breakfast room, sitting backwith the newspaper, his coffee at his elbow, the first cigarette of themorning half smoked. He looked rather older in the morning light. Smallfine threads had begun to show themselves at the corners of his eyes. The lines of repression from the nostrils to the corners of the mouthseemed deeper. But his invincible look of boyishness persisted, at that. 

There was no awkwardness in Graham's "Morning, dad. " He had notforgotten the night before, but he had already forgiven himself. Heignored the newspaper at his plate, and dug into his grapefruit. 

"Anything new?" he inquired casually. 

"You might look and see, " Clayton suggested, good-naturedly. 

"I'll read going down in the car. Can't stand war news on an emptystomach. Mother all right this morning?"

"I think she is still sleeping. "

"Well, I should say she needs it, after last night. How in the world wemanage, with all the interesting people in the world, to get togethersuch a dreary lot as that--Lord, it was awful. "

Clayton rose and folded his paper. 

"The car's waiting, " he said. "I'll be ready in five minutes. "

He went slowly up the stairs. In her pink bedroom Natalie had justwakened. Madeleine, her elderly French maid, had brought her breakfast, and she was lying back among the pillows, the litter of the early mailabout her and a morning paper on her knee. He bent over and kissedher, perfunctorily, and he was quick to see that her resentment of theevening before had survived the night. 

"Sleep well?" he inquired, looking down at her. She evaded his eyes. 

"Not particularly. "

"Any plans for to-day?"

"I'll just play around. I'm lunching out, and I may run out with Rodneyto Linndale. The landscape men are there today. "

She picked up the newspaper as though to end the discussion. He saw thenthat she was reading the society news, and he rather more than surmisedthat she had not even glanced at the black headings which on the firstpage announced the hideous casualties of the Somme. 

"Then you've given the planting contract?"

"Some things have to go in in the fall, Clay. For heaven's sake, don'tlook like a thunder cloud. "

"Have you given the landscape contract?"

"Yes. And please go out. You make my head ache. "

"How much is it to be?"

"I don't know. Ask Rodney. "

"I'll do nothing of the sort, my dear. This is not Rodney's investment. "

"Nor mine, I suppose!"

"All I want you to do, Natalie, is to consult me. I want you to have afree hand, but some one with a sense of responsibility ought to check upthese expenditures. But it isn't only that. I'd like to have a hand inthe thing myself. I've rather looked forward to the time when we couldhave the sort of country place we wanted. "

"You don't like any of the strings to get out of your fingers, do you?"

"I didn't come up to quarrel, Natalie. I wish you wouldn't force it onme. "

"I force it on you, " she cried, and laughed in a forced and high-pitchednote. "Just because I won't be over-ridden without a protest! I'mthrough, that's all. I shan't go near the place again. "

"You don't understand, " he persisted patiently. "I happen to likegardens. I had an idea--I told you about it--of trying to duplicatethe old garden at home. You remember it. When we went there on ourhoneymoon--"

"You don't call that a garden?"

"Of course I didn't want to copy it exactly. It was old and out ofcondition. But there were a lot of old-fashioned flowers---However, ifyou intend to build an Italian villa, naturally--"

"I don't intend to build anything, or to plant anything. " Her voicewas frozen. "You go ahead. Do it in your own way. And then you can livethere, if you like. I won't. "

Which was what he carried away with him that morning to the mill. He wasnot greatly disturbed by her threat to keep her hands off. He knewquite well, indeed, that the afternoon would find her, with Rodney Page, picking her way in her high-heeled shoes over the waste that was someday to bloom, not like the rose of his desire but according to theformal and rigid blueprint which Rodney would be carrying. But in fiveminutes he had put the incident out of his mind. After all, if it gaveher happiness and occupation, certainly she needed both. And his powersof inhibition were strong. For many years he had walled up the smallfrictions of his married life and its disappointments, and outside thatwall had built up an existence of his own, which was the mill. 

When he went down-stairs he found that Graham had ordered his own carand was already in it, drawing on his gloves. 

"Have to come back up-town early, dad, " he called in explanation, anddrove off, going at the reckless speed he affected. 

Clayton rode down alone in the limousine. He had meant to outline hisplans of expansion to Graham, but he had had no intention of consultinghim. In his own department the boy did neither better nor worse than anyother of the dozens of young men in the organization. If he had shownneither special aptitude for nor interest in the business, he had atleast not signally failed to show either. Now, paper and pencil inhand, Clayton jotted down the various details of the new system in theirsequence; the building of a forging plant to make the rough castsfor the new Italian shells out of the steel from the furnaces, theconstruction of a new spur to the little railway which bound the oldplant together with its shining steel rails. There were questions ofsupplies and shipping and bank credits to face, the vast and complexproblems of the complete new munition works, to be built out of town andinvolving such matters as the housing of enormous numbers of employees. He scrawled figures and added them. Even with the size of the foreigncontract their magnitude startled him. He leaned back, his mouthcompressed, the lines from the nostrils to the corners deeper than ever. 

He had completely forgotten Natalie and the country house. 

Outside the gates to the mill enclosure he heard an early extra beingcalled, and bought it. The Austrian premier had been assassinated. Thesuccessful French counter-attack against Verdun was corroborated, also. On the center of the front page was the first photograph to reachAmerica of a tank. He inspected it with interest. So the Allies had atlast shown same inventive genius of their own! Perhaps this was but thebeginning. Even at that, enough of these fighting mammoths, and thewar might end quickly. With the tanks, and the Allied offensive and theevidence of discontent in Austria, the thing might after all be overbefore America was involved. 

He reflected, however, that an early peace would not be an unmixedblessing for him. He wanted the war to end: he hated killing. He feltinarticulately that something horrible was happening to the world. Butpersonally his plans were premised on a war to last at least two yearsmore, until the fall of 1918. That would let him out, cover the cost ofthe new plant, bring renewals of his foreign contracts, justify thosestupendous figures on the paper in his hand. 

He wondered, rather uncomfortably, what he would do, under thecircumstances, if it were in his power to declare peace to-morrow. 

In his office in the mill administration building, he found the generalmanager waiting. Through the door into the conference room beyond hecould see the superintendents of the various departments, with Grahamrather aloof and detached, and a sprinkling of the most importantforemen. On his desk, neatly machined, was the first tentativeshell-case made in the mill machine-shop, an experiment rather than arealization. 

Hutchinson, the general manager, was not alone. Opposite him, veryneatly dressed in his best clothes, his hat in his hand and a setexpression on his face, was one of the boss rollers of the steel mill, Herman Klein. At Clayton's entrance he made a motion to depart, butHutchinson stopped him. 

"Tell Mr. Spencer what you've been telling me, Klein, " he said curtly. 

Klein fingered his hat, but his face remained set. 

"I've just been saying, Mr. Spencer, " he said, in good English, but withthe guttural accent which thirty years in America had not eliminated, "that I'll be leaving you now. "

"Leaving! Why?"

"Because of that!" He pointed, without intentional drama, at theshell-case. "I can't make those shells for you, Mr. Spencer, and me aGerman. "

"You're an American, aren't you?"

"I am, sir. It is not that. It iss that I--" His face worked. He haddropped back to the old idiom, after years of painful struggle toabandon it. "It iss that I am a German, also. I have people there, inthe war. To make shells to kill them--no. "

"He is determined, Mr. Spencer, " said Hutchinson. "I have been arguingwith him, but--you can't argue with a German. "

Clayton was uneasily aware of something like sympathy for the man. 

"I understand how you feel, Klein, " he observed. "But of course youknow, whether you go or stay, the shells will be made, anyhow. "

"I know that. "

"You are throwing up a good position. "

"I'll try to get another. "

The prospective loss of Klein was a rather serious one. Clayton, seatedbehind his great desk, eyed him keenly, and then stooped to bribery. Hementioned a change in the wage scale, with bonuses to all foremen androllers. He knew Klein's pride in the mill, and he outlined brieflythe growth that was about to be developed. But the boss roller remainedobdurate. He understood that such things were to be, but it was notnecessary that he assist Germany's enemies against her. Against thedetermination in his heavy square figure Clayton argued in vain. When, ten minutes later, he went into the conference room, followed by asecretary with a sheaf of papers, the mill was minus a boss roller, andthere was rankling in his mind Klein's last words. 

"I haf no objection, Mr. Spencer, to your making money out of this war, but I will not. "

There had been no insolence in his tone. He had gone out, with his heavyGerman stolidity of mien unchanged, and had closed the door behind himwith quiet finality. 

CHAPTER IV

Graham left the conference that morning in a rather exalted mood. Theold mill was coming into its own at last. He had a sense of boyishtriumph in the new developments, a feeling of being a part of bigactivities that would bring rich rewards. And he felt a new pride in hisfather. He had sat, a little way from the long table, and had watchedthe faces of the men gathered about it as clearly and forcibly theoutlines of the new departure were given out. Hitherto "Spencer's" hadmade steel only. Now, they were not only to make the steel, but theywere to forge the ingots into rough casts; these casts were then tobe carried to the new munition works, there to be machined, drilled, polished, provided with fuses, which "Spencer's" were also to make, andshipped abroad. 

The question of speeding production had been faced and met. The variousproblems had been discussed and the bonus system tentatively taken up. Then the men had dispersed, each infected with the drive of his father'scontagious force. "Pretty fine old boy, " Graham had considered. And hewondered vaguely if, when his time came, he would be able to take hold. For a few minutes Natalie's closetings lost their effect. He saw hisfather, not as one from whom to hide extravagance and unpaid bills, but as the head of a great concern that was now to be a part of the waritself. He wandered into his father's office, and picked up the shell. Clayton was already at his letters, but looked up. 

"Think we rather had them, eh, Graham?"

"Think you did, sir. Carried them off their feet. Pretty, isn't it?" Heheld up the shell-case. "If a fellow could only forget what the damnedthings are for!"

"They are to help to end the war, " said Clayton, crisply. "Don't forgetthat, boy. " And went back to his steady dictation. 

Graham went out of the building into the mill yard. The noise alwaysirritated him. He had none of Clayton's joy and understanding of it. To Clayton each sound had its corresponding activity. To Graham it wasmerely din, an annoyance to his ears, as the mill yard outraged hisfastidiousness. But that morning he found it rather more bearable. Hestooped where, in front of the store, the storekeeper had planted a tinygarden. Some small late-blossoming chrysanthemums were still there andhe picked one and put it in his buttonhole. 

His own office was across the yard. He dodged in front of a yardlocomotive, picked his way about masses of lumber and the general litterof all mill yards, and opened the door of his own building. Just insidehis office a girl was sitting on a straight chair, her hat a triflecrooked, and her eyes red from crying. He paused in amazement. 

"Why, Miss Klein!" he said. "What's the matter?"

She was rather a pretty girl, even now. She stood up at his voice andmade an effort to straighten her hat. 

"Haven't you heard?" she asked. 

"I haven't heard anything that ought to make Miss Anna Klein weep of anice, frosty morning in October. Unless--" he sobered, for her grief wasevident. "Tell me about it. "

"Father has given up his job. "

"No!"!

"I'm telling you, Mr. Spencer. He won't help to make those shells. He'sbeen acting queer for three or four days and this morning he told yourfather. "

Graham whistled. 

"As if it made any difference, " she went on irritably. "Some one elsewill get his job. That's all. What does he care about the Germans? Heleft them and came to America as soon as he could walk. "

Graham sat down. 

"Now let's get this, " he said. "He won't make shells for the Allies andso he's given up his position. All right. That's bad, but he's a goodworkman. He'll not have any trouble getting another job. Now, why areyou crying?"

"I didn't think you'd want me to stay on. "

Putting her fear into words brought back her long hours of terror. Shecollapsed into the chair again and fell to unquiet sobbing. Graham wasdisturbed. 

"You're a queer girl, " he said. "Why should that lose me my most valuedassistant?"

When she made no reply he got up and going over to her put a hand on hershoulder. "Tell me that, " he said. 

He looked down at her. The hair grew very soft and blonde at the nape ofher neck, and he ran a finger lightly across it. "Tell me that. "

"I was afraid it would. "

"And, even if it had, which you are a goose for thinking, you're just asgood in your line as your father is in his. I've been expecting any timeto hear of your leaving me for a handsomer man!"

He had been what he would have termed jollying her back to normalityagain. But to his intense surprise she suddenly leaned back and lookedup into his face. There was no doubting what he saw there. Just for amoment the situation threatened to get out of hand. Then he patted hershoulders and put the safety of his desk between them. 

"Run away and bathe your eyes, " he said, "and then come back herelooking like the best secretary in the state, and not like a winterthaw. We have the deuce of a lot of work to do. "

But after she had gone he sat for some little time idly rapping a pencilon the top of his desk. By Jove! Anna Klein! Of all girls in the world!It was rather a pity, too. She was a nice little thing, and in thelast few months she had changed a lot. She had been timid at first, andhideously dressed. Lately she had been almost smart. Those ear-ringsnow--they changed her a lot. Queer--how things went on in a girl's mind, and a fellow didn't know until something happened. He settled his tieand smoothed back his heavy hair. 

During the remainder of the day he began to wonder if he had not beena fatuous idiot. Anna did her work with the thoroughness of her Germanblood plus her American training. She came back minus her hat, and withher eyes carefully powdered, and not once during the morning was he ableto meet her eyes fully. By the middle of the afternoon sex vanityand curiosity began to get the better of his judgment, and he made anexcuse, when she stood beside him over some papers, her hand on thedesk, to lay his fingers over hers. She drew her hand away quickly, andwhen he glanced up, boyishly smiling, her face was flushed. 

"Please, " she said. And he felt hurt and rebuffed. He had no sentimentfor her whatever, but the devil of mischief of twenty-two was behindhim, urging him on to the eternal experiment. He was very formal withher for the rest of the day, and had the satisfaction of leaving her, atfour o'clock, white-faced and miserable over her machine in the littleoffice next to his. 

He forgot her immediately, in the attempt to leave the mill withoutencountering his father. Clayton, he knew, would be staying late, andwould be exacting similar tribute to the emergency from the entireforce. Also, he had been going about the yard with contractors most ofthe afternoon. But Graham made his escape safely. It was two hours laterwhen his father, getting into the limousine, noticed the absence of theboy's red car, and asked the gateman how long it had been gone. 

"Since about four o'clock, Mr. Spencer. "

Suddenly Clayton felt a reaction from the activities of the day. Hesank back in the deeply padded seat, and felt tired and--in some oddfashion--lonely. He would have liked to talk to Graham on the wayup-town, if only to crystallize his own thoughts. He would have liked tobe going home to review with Natalie the day's events, the fine spiritof his men, the small difficulties. But Natalie hated the mention of themill. 

He thought it probable, too, that they were dining out. Yes, heremembered. They were dining at the Chris Valentines. Well, that wasbetter than it might have been. They were not dull, anyhow. His mindwandered to the Valentine house, small, not too well-ordered, frequentlynoisy, but always gay and extremely smart. 

He thought of Audrey, and her curious friendship with Natalie. Audreythe careless, with her dark lazy charm, her deep and rather huskycontralto, her astonishing little French songs, which she sang withnonchalant grace, and her crowds of boyish admirers whom she alternatelypetted and bullied--surely she and Natalie had little enough in common. 

Yet, in the last year or so, he had been continually coming across themtogether--at the club, at luncheon in the women's dining room, at hisown house, Natalie always perfectly and expensively dressed, Audrey inthe casual garments which somehow her wearing made effective. 

He smiled a little. Certain of Audrey's impertinences came to his mind. She was an amusing young woman. He had an idea that she was always indebt, and that the fact concerned her very little. He fancied that fewthings concerned her very deeply, including Chris. But she knew aboutfood. Her dinners were as casual as her house, as to service, butthey were worth eating. She claimed to pay for them out of her bridgewinnings, and, indeed, her invitation for to-night had been franknessitself. 

"I'm going to have a party, Clay, " she had said. "I've made two killingsat bridge, and somebody has shipped Chris some ducks. If you'll send mesome cigarets like the last, I'll make it Tuesday. "

He had sent the cigarets, and this was Tuesday. 

The pleasant rolling of the car soothed him. The street flashed by, brilliant with lights that in far perspective seemed to meet. The shopwindows gleamed with color. From curb to curb were other cars like theone in which he rode, carrying home other men like himself to whateverthe evening held in store. He remembered London at this hour, alreadydark and quiet, its few motors making their cautious way in the dusk, its throngs of clerks, nearly all women now, hurrying home to whateverdread the night might hold. And it made him slightly more complacent. These things that he had taken for granted before had since his returnassumed the quality of luxury. 

"Pray God we won't get into it, " he said to himself. 

He reviewed his unrest of the night before, and smiled at it. Happiness. Happiness came from a sense of achievement. Integrity and power, thatwas the combination. The respect of one's fellow men, the day'swork well done. Romance was done, at his age, but there remained theadventure of success. A few years more, and he would leave the mill toGraham and play awhile. After that--he had always liked politics. Theyneeded business men in politics. If men of training and leisurewould only go in for it there would be some chance of cleaning up thesituation. Yes, he might do that. He was an easy speaker, and--

The car drew up at the curb and the chauffeur got out. Natalie's carhad drawn up just ahead, and the footman was already opening the door. Rodney Page got out, and assisted Natalie to alight. Clayton smiled. Soshe had changed her mind. He saw Rodney bend over her hand and kiss itafter his usual ceremonious manner. Natalie seemed a trifle breathlesswhen she turned and saw him. 

"You're early, aren't you?" she said. 

"I fancy it is you who are late. "

Then he realized that the chauffeur was waiting to speak to him. 

"Yes, Jackson?"

"I'm sorry, sir. I guess I'll be leaving at the end of my month, Mr. Spencer. "

"Come into the library and I'll talk to you. What's wrong?"

"There's nothing wrong, sir. I have been very well suited. It's only--Iused to be in the regular army, sir, and I guess I'm going to be neededagain. "

"You mean--we are going to be involved?"

"Yes, sir. I think we are. "

"There's no answer to that, Jackson, " he said. But a sense of irritationstirred him as he went up the steps to the house door. Jackson was agood man. Jackson and Klein, and who knew who would be next?

"Oh, damn the war, " he reflected rather wearily. 

CHAPTER V

The winter which preceded the entrance of the United States into the warwas socially an extraordinary one. It was marked by an almost feverishgayety, as though, having apparently determined to pursue a policydictated purely by self interest, the people wished to forget theiranomalous position. Like a woman who covers her shame with a smile. Thevast number of war orders from abroad had brought prosperity into homeswhere it had long been absent. Mills and factories took on new life. Labor was scarce and high. 

It was a period of extravagance rather than pleasure. People playedthat they might not think. Washington, convinced that the nation wouldultimately be involved, kept its secret well and continued to preach aneutrality it could not enforce. War was to most of the nation a greatdramatic spectacle, presented to them at breakfast and in the afternooneditions. It furnished unlimited conversation at dinner-parties, ledto endless wrangles, gave zest and point to the peace that made thosedinner parties possible, furnished an excuse for retrenchment here andthere, and brought into vogue great bazaars and balls for the Red Crossand kindred activities. 

But although the war was in the nation's mind, it was not yet in itssoul. 

Life went on much as before. An abiding faith in the Allies was thefoundation stone of its complacency. The great six-months battle of theSomme, with its million casualties, was resulting favorably. On the eastthe Russians had made some gains. There were wagers that the Germanswould be done in the Spring. 

But again Washington knew that the British and French losses at theSomme had been frightful; that the amount of lost territory regained wasnegligible as against the territory still held; that the food problemin the British Islands was acute; that the submarine sinkings werecolossal. Our peace was at a fearful cost. 

And on the edge of this volcano America played. 

When Graham Spencer left the mill that Tuesday afternoon, it was tovisit Marion Hayden. He was rather bored now at the prospect. He wouldhave preferred going to the Club to play billiards, which was his customof a late afternoon. He drove rather more slowly than was his custom, and so missed Marion's invitation to get there before the crowd. 

Three cars before the house showed that she already had callers, andindeed when the parlor-maid opened the door a burst of laughter greetedhim. The Hayden house was a general rendezvous. There were usually, by seven o'clock, whiskey-and-soda glasses and tea-cups on most of thefurniture, and half-smoked cigarets on everything that would hold them, including the piano. 

Marion herself met him in the hall, and led him past the drawing-roomdoor. 

"There are people in every room who want to be left alone, " shevolunteered. "I kept the library as long as I could. We can sit on thestairs, if you like. "

Which they proceeded to do, quite amiably. From various open doors camesubdued voices. The air was pungent with tobacco smoke permeated with afaint scent of late afternoon highballs. 

"Tommy!" Marion called, when she had settled herself. 

"Yes, " from a distance. 

"Did you leave your cigaret on the piano?"

"No, Toots dear. But I can, easily. "

"Mother, " Marion explained, "is getting awfully touchy about the piano. Well, do you remember half the pretty things you told me last night?"

"Not exactly. But I meant them. "

He looked up at her admiringly. He was only a year from college, andhe had been rather arbitrarily limited to the debutantes. He found, therefore, something rather flattering in the attention he was receivingfrom a girl who had been out five years, and who was easily the mostpopular young woman in the gayer set. It gave him a sense of maturitySince the night before he had been rankling under a sense of youth. 

"Was I pretty awful last night?" he asked. 

"You were very interesting. And--I imagine--rather indiscreet. "

"Fine! What did I say?"

"You boasted, my dear young friend. "

"Great Scott! I must have been awful. "

"About the new war contracts. "

"Oh, business!"

"But I found it very interesting. You know, I like business. And I likebig figures. Poor people always do. Has it really gone through? I mean, those things do slip up sometimes, don't they. 

"It's gone through, all right. Signed, sealed, and delivered. "

Encouraged by her interest, he elaborated on the new work. He evendeveloped an enthusiasm for it, to his own surprise. And the girllistened intently, leaning forward so that her arm brushed his shoulder. Her eyes, slightly narrowed, watched him closely. She knew every move ofthe game she was determining to play. 

Marion Hayden, at twenty-five, knew already what her little world hadnot yet realized, that such beauty as she had had was the beauty ofyouth only, and that that was going. Late hours, golf, perhaps a littlemore champagne than was necessary at dinners, and the mornings found heralmost plain. And, too, she had the far vision of the calculating mind. She knew that if the country entered the war, every eligible man sheknew would immediately volunteer. 

At twenty-five she already noticed a change in the personnel of herfollowers. The unmarried men who had danced with her during her firsttwo winters were now sending flowers to the debutantes, and cutting inon the younger men at balls. Her house was still a rendezvous, but itwas for couples like the ones who had preempted the drawing-room, thelibrary and the music room that afternoon. They met there, smoked hercigarets, made love in a corner, occasionally became engaged. But shewas of the game, no longer in it. 

Men still came to see her, a growing percentage of them married. Theybrought or sent her tribute, flowers, candy, and cigarets. She wasenormously popular at dances. But more and more her dinner invitationswere from the older crowd. Like Natalie Spencer's stupid party the nightbefore. 

So she watched Graham and listened. He was a nice boy and a handsomeone. Also he promised to be sole heir to a great business. If the waronly lasted long enough--

"Imagine your knowing all those things, " she said admiringly. "You're apartner, aren't you?"

He flushed slightly. 

"Not yet. But of course I shall be. "

"When you really get going, I wonder if you will take me round and showme how shells are made. I'm the most ignorant person you ever knew. "

"I'll be awfully glad to. "

"Very well. For that promise you shall have a highball. You're an awfuldear, you know. "

She placed a slim hand on his shoulder and patted it. Then, leaningrather heavily on him for support, she got to her feet. 

"We'll go in and stir up some of the lovers, " she suggested. "And ifTommy Hale hasn't burned up the piano we can dance a bit. You dancedivinely, you know. "

It was after seven when he reached home. He felt every inch a man. Heheld himself very straight as he entered the house, and the boyishgrin with which he customarily greeted the butler had given place to adignified nod. 

Natalie was in her dressing-room. At his knock she told the maid toadmit him, and threw a dressing-gown over her bare shoulders. Then shesent the maid away and herself cautiously closed the door into Clayton'sroom. 

"I've got the money for you, darling, " she said. From her jewel case shetook a roll of bills and held them out to him. "Five hundred. "

"I hate to take it, mother. "

"Never mind about taking it. Pay those bills before your father learnsabout them. That's all. "

He was divided between gratitude and indignation. His new-found maturityseemed to be slipping from him. Somehow here at home they always managedto make him feel like a small boy. 

"Honestly, mother, I'd rather go to father and tell him about it. He'dmake a row, probably, but at least you'd be out of it. "

She ignored his protest, as she always ignored protests against her ownmethods of handling matters. 

"I'm accustomed to it, " was her sole reply. But her resigned voicebrought her, as it always had, the ready tribute of the boy's sympathy. "Sit down, Graham, I want to talk to you. "

He sat down, still uneasily fingering the roll of bills. Just how farNatalie's methods threatened to undermine his character was revealedwhen, at a sound in Clayton's room, he stuck the money hastily into hispocket. 

"Have you noticed a change in your father since he came back?"

Her tone was so ominous that he started. 

"He's not sick, is he?"

"Not that. But--he's different. Graham, your father thinks we may beforced into the war. "

"Good for us. It's time, that's sure. "

"Graham!"

"Why, good heavens, mother, " he began, "we should have been in it lastMay. We should--"

She was holding out both hands to him, piteously. 

"You wouldn't go, would you?"

"I might have to go, " he evaded. 

"You wouldn't, Graham. You're all I have. All I have left to live for. You wouldn't need to go. It's ridiculous. You're needed here. Yourfather needs you. "

"He needs me the hell of a lot, " the boy muttered. But he went over and, stooping down, kissed her trembling face. 

"Don't worry about me, " he said lightly. "I don't think we've got spineenough to get into the mix-up, anyhow. And if we have--"

"You won't go. Promise me you won't go. "

When he hesitated she resorted to her old methods with both Clayton andthe boy. She was doing all she could to make them happy. She made nodemands, none. But when she asked for something that meant more thanlife to her, it was refused, of course. She had gone through all sortsof humiliation to get him that money, and this was the gratitude shereceived. 

Graham listened. She was a really pathetic figure, crouched in her lowchair, and shaken with terror. She must have rather a bad time; therewere so many things she dared not take to his father. She brought themto him instead, her small grievances, her elaborate extravagances, herdisappointments. It did not occur to him that she transferred to hisyoung shoulders many of her own burdens. He was only grateful for herconfidence, and a trifle bewildered by it. And she had helped him out ofa hole just now. 

"All right. I promise, " he said at last. "But you're worrying yourselffor nothing, mother. "

She was quite content then, cheered at once, consulted the jewelledwatch on her dressing table and rang for the maid. 

"Heavens, how late it is!" she exclaimed. "Run out now, dear. And, Graham, tell Buckham to do up a dozen dinner-napkins in paper. AudreyValentine has telephoned that she has just got in, and finds she hasn'tenough. If that isn't like her!"

CHAPTER VI

Months afterward, Clayton Spencer, looking back, realized that the nightof the dinner at the Chris Valentines marked the beginning of a newepoch for him. Yet he never quite understood what it was that hadcaused the change. All that was clear was that in retrospect he alwayscommenced with that evening, when he was trying to trace his own coursethrough the months that followed, with their various changes, to themomentous ones of the following Summer. 

Everything pertaining to the dinner, save the food, stood out with odddistinctness. Natalie's silence during the drive, broken only by his fewquestions and her brief replies. Had the place looked well? Very. Andwas the planting going on all right? She supposed so. He had hesitated, rather discouraged. Then:

"I don't want to spoil your pleasure in the place, Natalie--" he hadsaid, rather awkwardly. "After all, you will be there more than I shall. You'd better have it the way you like it. "

She had appeared mollified at that and had relaxed somewhat. He fanciedthat the silence that followed was no longer resentful, that she wasbusily planning. But when they had almost reached the house she turnedto him. 

"Please don't talk war all evening, Clay, " she said. "I'm so ghastlysick of it. "

"All right, " he agreed amiably. "Of course I can't prevent the othersdoing it. "

"It's generally you who lead up to it. Ever since you came back you'vebored everybody to death with it. "

"Sorry, " he said, rather stiffly. "I'll be careful. "

He had a wretched feeling that she was probably right. He had come backso full of new impressions that he had probably overflowed with them. It was a very formal, extremely tall and reticent Clayton Spencer whogreeted Audrey that night. 

Afterward he remembered that Audrey was not quite her usual frivolousself that evening. But perhaps that was only in retrospect, in view ofwhat he learned later. She was very daringly dressed, as usual, wearinga very low gown and a long chain and ear-rings of black opals, and asusual all the men in the room were grouped around her. 

"Thank heaven for one dignified man, " she exclaimed, looking up at him. "Clayton, you do give tone to my parties. "

It was not until they went in to dinner that he missed Chris. He heardAudrey giving his excuses. 

"He's been called out of town, " she said. "Clay, you're to have hisplace. And the flowers are low, so I can look across and admire you. "

There were a dozen guests, and things moved rapidly. Audrey's dinnerswere always hilarious. And Audrey herself, Clayton perceived from hisplace of vantage, was flirting almost riotously with the man on herleft. She had two high spots of color in her cheeks, and Claytonfancied--or was that in retrospect, too?--that her gayety was ratherforced. Once he caught her eyes and it seemed to him that she was tryingto convey something to him. 

And then, of course, the talk turned to the war, and he caught a flashof irritation on Natalie's face. 

"Ask the oracle, " said Audrey's clear voice, "Ask Clay. He knows allthere is to know. "

"I didn't hear it, but I suppose it is when the war will end?"

"Amazing perspicacity, " some one said. 

"I can only give you my own opinion. Ten years if we don't go in. Possibly four if we do. "

There were clamors of dissent. 

"None of them can hold out so long. "

"If we go in it will end in six months. "

"Nonsense! The Allies are victorious now:"

"I only gave an opinion, " he protested. "One man's guess is just asgood as another's. All I contend is that it is going on to a finish. TheFrench and English are not going to stop until they have made the Hunpay in blood for what he has cost them. "

"I wish I were a man, " Audrey said' suddenly. "I don't see how any manwith red blood in his veins can sit still, and not take a gun and tryto stop it. Sometimes I think I'll cut off my hair, and go over anyhow. I've only got one accomplishment. I can shoot. I'd like to sit in a treesomewhere and pick them off. The butchers!"

There was a roar of laughter, not so much at the words as at thefierceness with which she delivered them. Clayton, however, felt thatshe was in earnest and liked her the better for it. He surmised, indeed, that under Audrey's affectations there might be something rather fineif one could get at it. She looked around the table, coolly appraisingevery man there. 

"Look at us, " she said. "Here we sit, over-fed, over-dressed. Onlynot over-wined because I can't afford it. And probably--yes, I thinkactually--every man at this table is more or less making money out of itall. There's Clay making a fortune. There's Roddie, making money out ofClay. Here am I, serving Clayton's cigarets--I don't know why I pick onyou, Clay. The rest are just as bad. You're the most conspicuous, that'sall. "

Natalie evidently felt that the situation required saving. 

"I'm sure we all send money over, " she protested. "To the Belgians andall that. And if they want things we have to sell--"

"Oh, yes, I know all that, " Audrey broke in, rather wearily. "I know. We're the saviors of the Belgians, and we've given a lot of money andshiploads of clothes. But we're not stopping the war. And it's got to bestopped!"

Clayton watched her. Somehow what she had just said seemed tocrystallize much that he had been feeling. The damnable butchery oughtto be stopped. 

"Right, Audrey, " he supported her. "I'd give up every prospect I have ifthe thing could be ended now. "

He meant it then. He might not have meant it, entirely, to-morrow orthe day after. But he meant it then. He glanced down the table, to findNatalie looking at him with cynical amusement. 

The talk veered then, but still focused on the war. It became abstractas was so much of the war talk in America in 1916. Were we, after thiswar was over, to continue to use the inventions of science to destroymankind, or for its welfare? Would we ever again, in wars to come, goback to the comparative humanity of the Hague convention? Were suchwickednesses as the use of poison gas, the spreading of disease germsand the killing of non-combatants, all German precedents, to inauguratea new era of cruelty in warfare. 

Was this the last war? Would there ever be a last war? Would there notalways be outlaw nations, as there are outlaw individuals? Would thereever be a league of nations to enforce peace?

From that to Christianity. It had failed. On the contrary, there was agreat revival of religious faith. Creeds, no. Belief, yes. Too many menwere dying to permit the growth of any skepticism as to a future life. We must have it or go mad. 

In the midst of that discussion Audrey rose. Her color had faded, andher smile was gone. 

"I won't listen any longer, " she said. "I'm ready to talk aboutfighting, but not about dying. "

Clayton was conscious that he had had, in spite of Audrey's speech aboutthe wine, rather more to drink than he should have. He was not at alldrunk, but a certain excitement had taken the curb off his tongue. Afterthe departure of the women he found himself, rather to his own surprise, delivering a harangue on the Germans. 

"Liars and cheats, " he said. And was conscious of the undividedattention of the men. "They lied when they signed the Hague Convention;they lie when they claim that they wanted peace, not war; they lie whenthey claim the mis-use by the Allies of the Red Cross; they lie to theworld and they lie to themselves. And their peace offers will be lies. Always lies. "

Then, conscious that the table was eying him curiously, he subsided intosilence. 

"You're a dangerous person, Clay, " somebody said. "You're the kind whodevelops a sort of general hate, and will force the President's handif he can. You're too old to go yourself, but you're willing to send amillion or two boys over there to fight a war that is still none of ourbusiness. "

"I've got a son, " Clayton said sharply. And suddenly remembered Natalie. He would want to boast, she had said, that he had a son in the army. Good God, was he doing it already? He subsided into the watchful silenceof a man not entirely sure of himself. 

He took no liquor, and with his coffee he was entirely himself again. But he was having a reaction. He felt a sort of contemptuous scornfor the talk at the table. The guard down, they were either mouthingflamboyant patriotism or attacking the Government. It had done too much. It had done too little. Voices raised, faces flushed, they wrangled, protested, accused. 

And the nation, he reflected, was like that, divided apparentlyhopelessly. Was there anything that would unite it, as for instanceFrance was united? Would even war do it? Our problem was much greater, more complicated. We were of every race. And the country was founded andhad grown by men who had fled from the quarrels of Europe. They had cometo find peace. Was there any humanitarian principle in the world strongenough to force them to relinquish that peace?

Clayton found Audrey in the hall as they moved at last toward thedrawing-room. He was the last of the line of men, and as he pausedbefore her she touched him lightly on the arm. 

"I want to talk to you, Clay. Unless you're going to play. "

"I'd rather not, unless you need me. "

"I don't. I'm not playing either. And I must talk to some one. "

There was something wrong with Audrey. Her usual insouciance was gone, and her hands nervously fingered the opal beads of her long necklace. 

"What I really want to do, " she added, "is to scream. But don't looklike that. I shan't do it. Suppose we go up to Chris's study. "

She was always a casual hostess. Having got her parties together, andhaving fed them well, she consistently declined further responsibility. She kept open house, her side board and her servants at the call ofher friends, but she was quite capable of withdrawing herself, withoutexplanation, once things were moving well, to be found later by someone who was leaving, writing letters, fussing with her endless bills, orsending a check she could not possibly afford to some one in wantwhom she happened to have heard about. Her popularity was founded onsomething more substantial than her dinners. 

Clayton was liking Audrey better that night than he had ever liked her, though even now he did not entirely approve of her. And to the call ofany woman in trouble he always responded. It occurred to him, followingher up the stairs, that not only was something wrong with Audrey, butthat it was the first time he had ever known her to show weakness. 

Chris's study was dark. She groped her way in and turned on the lamp, and then turned and faced him. 

"I'm in an awful mess, Clay, " she said. "And the worst of it is, I don'tknow just what sort of a mess it is. "

"Are you going to tell me about it?"

"Some of it. And if I don't start to yelling like a tom-cat. "

"You're not going to do that. Let me get you something. "

He was terrified by her eyes. "Some aromatic ammonia. " That wasNatalie's cure for everything. 

"I'm not going to faint. I never do. Close the door and sit down. Andthen--give me a hundred dollars, if you have it. Will you?"

"Is that enough?" he asked. And drew out his black silk evening wallet, with its monogram in seed pearls. He laid the money on her knee, for shemade no move to take it. She sat back, her face colorless, and surveyedhim intently. 

"What a comfort you are, Clay, " she said. "Not a word in question. Justlike that! Yet you know I don't borrow money, usually. "

"The only thing that is important is that I have the money with me. Areyou sure it's enough?"

"Plenty. I'll send it back in a week or so. I'm selling this house. It'spractically sold. I don't know why anybody wants it. It's a poky littleplace. But--well, it doesn't matter about the house. I called up somepeople to-day who have been wanting one in this neighborhood and I'mpractically sure they'll take it. "

"But--you and Chris--"

"We have separated, Clay. At least, Chris has gone. There's a long storybehind it. I'm not up to telling it to-night. And this money will endpart of it. That's all I'm going to tell about the money. It's a smallsum, isn't it, to break up a family!"

"Why, it's absurd! It's--it's horrible, Audrey. "

"Oh, it isn't the money. That's a trifle. I just had to have it quickly. And when I learned I needed it of course the banks were closed. Besides, I fancy Chris had to have all there was. "

Clayton was puzzled and distressed. He had not liked Chris. He had hatedhis cynicism, his pose of indifference. His very fastidiousness hadnever seemed entirely genuine. And this going away and taking allAudrey's small reserve of money--

"Where is he?"

"I don't know. I believe on his way to Canada. "

"Do you mean--"

"Oh, no, he didn't steal anything. He's going to enlist in the Canadianarmy. Or he said so when he left. "

"Look here, Audrey, you can't tell me only part of the story. Do youmean to say that Chris has had a magnificent impulse and gone to fight?Or that he's running away from something?"

"Both, " said Audrey. "I'll tell you this much, Clay. Chris has gothimself into a scrape. I won't tell you about that, because after allthat's his story. And I'm not asking for sympathy. If you dare to pityme I'll cry, and I'll never forgive you. "

"Why didn't he stay and face it like a man? Not leave you to face it. "

"Because the only person it greatly concerned was myself. He didn't wantto face me. The thing that is driving me almost mad is that he may bekilled over there. Not because I love him so much. I think you know howthings have been. But because he went to--well, I think to reinstatehimself in my esteem, to show me he's a man, after all. "

"Good heavens, Audrey. And you went through dinner with all this tobear!"

"I've got to carry it right along, haven't I? You know how I've beenabout this war, Clay. I've talked and talked about wondering how our mencould stay out of it. So when the smash came, he just said he was going. He would show me there was some good stuff in him still. You see, I'vereally driven him to it, and if he's killed--"

A surge of resentment against the absent man rose in Clayton Spencer'smind. How like the cynicism of Chris's whole attitude that he shouldthrust the responsibility for his going onto Audrey. He had made herunhappy while he was with her, and now his death, if it occurred, wouldbe a horror to her. 

"I don't know why I burden you with all this, " she said, ratherimpatiently. "I daresay it is because I knew you'd have the money. No, I don't mean that. I'd rather go to you in trouble than to any one else;that's why. "

"I hope you always will. "

"Oh, I shall! Don't worry. " But her attempt at gayety fell flat. Shelighted a cigaret from the stand beside her and fell to studying hisface. 

"What's happened to you?" she asked. "There's a change in you, somehow. I've noticed it ever since you came home. You ought to be smug andcontented, if any man should. But you're not, are you?"

"I'm working hard. That's all. I don't want to talk about myself, " headded impatiently. "What about you? What are you going to do?"

"Sell my house, pay my debts and live on my own little bit of anincome. "

"But, good heavens, Audrey! Chris has no right to cut off like this, andleave you. I don't know the story, but at least he must support you. Aman can't just run away and evade every obligation. I think I'll have togo after him and give him a talking to. "

"No!" she said, bending forward. "Don't do that. He has had a bad scare. But he's had one decent impulse, too. Let him alone, Clay. "

She placed the money on the stand, and rose. As she faced him, sheimpulsively placed her hands on his shoulders. 

"I wish I could tell you, Clay, " she said, in her low, slightly huskyvoice, "how very, very much I admire you. You're pretty much of a man, you know. And--there aren't such a lot of them. "

For an uneasy moment he thought she was going to kiss him. But she lether hands fall, and smiling faintly, led the way downstairs. Once down, however, she voiced the under lying thought in her mind. 

"If he comes out, Clay, he'll never forgive me, probably. And if heis--if he doesn't, I'll never forgive myself. So I'm damned either way. "

But ten minutes later, with a man on either side of her, she was sittingat the piano with a cigaret tucked behind her ear, looking distractinglypretty and very gay and singing a slightly indecorous but very wittylittle French song. 

Clayton Spencer, cutting in on the second rubber, wondered which of themany he knew was the real Audrey. He wondered if Chris had not married, for instance, the girl at the piano, only to find she was the womanupstairs. And he wondered, too, if that were true, why he should havehad to clear out. So many men married the sort Audrey had been, inChris's little study, only to find that after all the thing they hadthought they were getting was a pose, and it was the girl at the pianoafter all. 

He missed her, somewhat later. She was gone a full half hour, and hefancied her absence had something to do with the money she had borrowed. 

CHAPTER VII

Two things helped greatly to restore Clayton to a more normal state ofmind during the next few days. One of them undoubtedly was the Valentinesituation. Beside Audrey's predicament and Chris's wretched endeavor toget away and yet prove himself a man, his own position seemed, if notcomfortable, at least tenable. He would have described it, had he beena man to put such a thing into words, as that "he and Natalie didn'texactly hit it off. "

There were times, too, during those next few days, when he wonderedif he had not exaggerated their incompatibility. Natalie was unusuallypleasant. She spent some evening hours on the arm of his big chair, talking endlessly about the Linndale house, and he would lean back, smiling, and pretend to a mad interest in black and white tiles andloggias. 

He made no further protest as to the expense. 

"Tell me, " he said once, "what does a fellow wear in this--er--Italianpalace? If you have any intention of draping me in a toga and puttingvine leaves in my hair, or whatever those wreaths were made of--!"

Natalie had no sense of humor, however. She saw that he meant to beamusing, and she gave the little fleeting smile one gives to a child whois being rather silly. 

"Of course, " he went on, "we'll have Roman baths, and be anointed withoil afterwards by lady Greek slaves. Perfumed oil. "

"Don't be vulgar, Clay. " And he saw she was really offended. 

While there was actually no change in their relationship, which remainedas it had been for a dozen years, their surface life was pleasanter. And even that small improvement cheered him greatly. He was thankful forsuch a peace, even when he knew that he had bought it at a heavy price. 

The other was his work. The directorate for the new munition plant hadbeen selected, and on Thursday of that week he gave a dinner at his clubto the directors. It had been gratifying to him to find how easilyhis past reputation carried the matter of the vast credits needed, howabsolutely his new board deferred to his judgment. The dinner became, ina way, an ovation. He was vastly pleased and a little humbled. He wantedterribly to make good, to justify their faith in him. They were the bigfinancial men of his time, and they were agreeing to back his judgmentto the fullest extent. 

When the dinner was over, a few of the younger men were in no mood togo home. They had dined and wined, and the night was young. Denis Nolan, who had been present as the attorney for the new concern, leaned back inhis chair and listened to them with a sort of tolerant cynicism. 

"Oh, go home, you fellows, " he said at last. "You make me sick. Enough'senough. Why the devil does every dinner like this have to end in adebauch?"

In the end, however, both he and Clayton went along, Clayton at leastfrankly anxious to keep an eye on one or two of them until they startedhome. He had the usual standards, of course, except for himself. A man'sprivate life, so long as he was not a bounder, concerned him not at all. But this had been his dinner. He meant to see it through. Once or twicehe had seen real tragedy come to men as a result of the recklessness oflong dinners, many toasts and the instinct to go on and make a night ofit. 

Afterward they went to a midnight roof-garden, and at first it wasrather dreary. Their youth was only comparative after all, and the eyesof the girls who danced and sang passed over them, to rest on boys intheir twenties. 

Nolan chuckled. 

"Pathetic!" he said. "The saddest sight in the world! Every one ofyou here would at this moment give up everything he's got to be underthirty. "

"Oh, shut up!" some one said, almost savagely. 

"Of course, there are compensations, " he drawled. "At twenty you want totake the entire bunch home and keep 'em. At thirty you know you can't, but you still want to. At forty and over you don't want them at all, butyou think it's damned curious they don't want you. "

Clayton had watched the scene with a rather weary interest. He was, indeed, trying to put himself in Graham's place, at Graham's age. Heremembered once, at twenty, having slipped off to see "The Black Crook, "then the epitome of wickedness, and the disillusionment of seeing womenin tights with their accentuated curves and hideous lack of appeal tothe imagination. The caterers of such wares had learned since then. Herewere soft draperies instead, laces and chiffons. The suggestion was notto the eyes but to the mind. How devilishly clever it all was. 

Perhaps there were some things he ought to discuss with Graham. Hewondered how a man led up to such a thing. 

Nolan bent toward him. 

"I've been watching for a girl, " he said, "but I don't see her. Lasttime I was here I came with Chris. She was his girl. "

"Chris!"

"Yes. It stumped me, at first. She came and sat with us, not a badlittle thing, but--Good Lord, Clay, ignorant and not even pretty! AndChris was fastidious, in a way. I don't understand it. "

The ancient perplexity of a man over the sex selections of his friendspuckered his forehead. 

"Damned if I understand it, " he repeated. 

A great wave of pity for Audrey Valentine surged in Clayton Spencer'sheart. She had known it, of course; that was why Chris had gone away. How long had she known it? She was protecting Chris's name, even now. For all her frivolity, there was something rather big in Audrey. The wayshe had held up at her dinner, for instance--and he rather fanciedthat the idea of his going into the army had come from her, directly orindirectly. So Chris, from being a fugitive, was already by way of beinga hero to his friends. 

Poor Audrey!

He made a mental note to send her some flowers in the morning. 

He ordered them on his way down-town, and for some curious reason shewas in his mind most of the day. Chris had been a fool to throw away athing so worth having. Not every man had behind him a woman of Audrey'ssort. 

CHAPTER VIII

That afternoon, accompanied by a rather boyishly excited elderlyclergyman, he took two hours off from the mill and purchased a new carfor Doctor Haverford. 

The rector was divided between pleasure at the gift and apprehension atits cost, but Clayton, having determined to do a thing, always did itwell. 

"Nonsense, " he said. "My dear man, the church has owed you this car forat least ten years. If you get half the pleasure out of using it thatI'm having in presenting it to you, it will be well worth while. Ionly wish you'd let me endow the thing. It's likely to cost you a smallfortune. "

Doctor Haverford insisted that he could manage that. He stood off, surveying with pride not unmixed with fear its bright enamel, itsleather linings, the complicated system of dials and bright levers whichfilled him with apprehension. 

"Delight says I must not drive it, " he said. "She is sure I would go toofast, and run into things. She is going to drive for me. "

"How is Delight?"

"I wish you could see her, Clayton. She--well, all young girls arelovely, but sometimes I think Delight is lovelier than most. She is mucholder than I am, in many ways. She looks after me like a mother. But shehas humor, too. She has been drawing the most outrageous pictures ofme arrested for speeding, and she has warned me most gravely againstvisiting road houses!"

"But Delight will have to be taught, if she is to run the car. "

"The salesman says they will send some one. "

"They give one lesson, I believe. That's not enough. I think Grahamcould show her some things. He drives well. "

Flying uptown a little later in Clayton's handsome car, the rectordreamed certain dreams. First his mind went to his parish visiting list, so endless, so never cleaned up, and now about to be made a pleasureinstead of a penance. And into his mind, so strangely compounded ofworldliness and spirituality, came a further dream--of Delight andGraham Spencer--of ease at last for the girl after the struggle to keepup appearances of a clergyman's family in a wealthy parish. 

Money had gradually assumed an undue importance in his mind. EverySunday, every service, he dealt in money. He reminded his people of thechurch debt. He begged for various charities. He tried hard to believethat the money that came in was given to the Lord, but he knew perfectlywell that it went to the janitor and the plumber and the organist. Hewatched the offertory after the sermon, and only too often as he stoodwaiting, before raising it before the altar, he wondered if the peoplefelt that they had received their money's worth. 

He had started life with a dream of service, but although his own sturdyfaith persisted, he had learned the cost of religion in dollars andcents. So, going up town, he wondered if Clayton would increase hischurch subscription, now that things were well with him. 

"After all, " he reflected, "war is not an unmixed evil, " and outlineda sermon, to be called the Gains of War, and subsequently reprintedin pamphlet form and sold for the benefit of the new altar fund. Heinstructed Jackson to drive to the parish house instead of to therectory, so that he might jot down the headings while they were in hismind. They ran like this: Spiritual growth; the nobility of sacrifice;the pursuit of an ideal; the doctrine of thy brother's keeper. 

He stopped to speak to Jackson from the pavement. 

"I daresay we shall be in frequent difficulties with that new car ofours, Jackson, " he said genially. "I may have to ask you to come roundand explain some of its mysterious interior to me. "

Jackson touched his cap. 

"Thank you, sir, I'll be glad to come. But I am leaving Mr. Spencersoon. "

"Leaving!"

"Going back to the army, sir. "

In the back of his mind the rector had been depending on Jackson, and hefelt vaguely irritated. 

"I'm sorry to hear it. I'd been counting on you. "

"Very sorry, sir. I'm not leaving immediately. "

"I sometimes think, " observed the rector, still ruffled, "that aman's duty is not always what it appears on the surface. To keep Mr. Spencer--er--comfortable, while he is doing his magnificent work for theAllies, may be less spectacular, but it is most important. "

Jackson smiled, a restrained and slightly cynical smile. 

"That's a matter for a man's conscience, isn't it, sir?" he asked. Andtouching his cap again, moved off. Doctor Haverford felt reproved. Worsethan that, he felt justly reproved. He did not touch the Gains of Warthat afternoon. 

In the gymnasium he found Delight, captaining a basket-ball team. In herknickers and middy blouse she looked like a little girl, and he stoodwatching her as, flushed and excited, she ran round the long room. Atlast she came over and dropped onto the steps at his feet. 

"Well?" she inquired, looking up. "Did you get it?"

"I did, indeed. A beauty, Delight. "

"A flivver?"

"Not at all. A very handsome car. " He told her the make, and she flushedagain with pleasure. 

"Joy and rapture!" she said. "Did you warn him I am to drive it?"

"I did. He suggests that Graham give you some lessons. "

"Graham!"

"Why not?"

"He'll be bored to insanity. That's all. You--you didn't suggest it, didyou, daddy?"

With all her adoration of her father, Delight had long recognized underhis real spirituality a certain quality of worldly calculation. That, where it concerned her, it was prompted only by love did not make heracceptance of it easier. 

"Certainly not, " said the rector, stiffly. 

"Graham's changed, you know. He used to be a nice little kid. Buthe's--I don't know what it is. Spoiled, I suppose. "

"He'll steady down, Delight. "

She looked up at him with clear, slightly humorous eyes. 

"Don't get any queer ideas about Graham Spencer and me, Daddy, " shesaid. "In the first place, I intend to choose my own husband. He's tolook as much as possible like you, but a trifle less nose. And in thesecond place, after I've backed the car into a telegraph pole; andturned it over in a ditch, Graham Spencer is just naturally going toknow I am no woman to tie to. "

She got up and smiled at him. 

"Anyhow, I wouldn't trust him with the communion service, " she added, and walking out onto the floor, blew shrilly on her whistle. The rectorwatched her with growing indignation. These snap judgments of youth!The easy damning of the young! They left no room for argument. Theycondemned and walked away, leaving careful plans in ruin behind them. 

And Delight, having gone so far, went further. She announced thatevening at dinner that she would under no circumstances be instructed byGraham Spencer. Her mother ventured good-humored remonstrance. 

"The way to learn to drive a car, " said Delight, "is to get into it andpress a few things, and when it starts, keep on going. You've got towork it out for yourself. "

And when Clayton, calling up with his usual thoughtfulness that evening, offered Graham as instructor, she refused gratefully but firmly. 

"You're a dear to think of it, " she said, "and you're a dear to havegiven Daddy the car. But I'm just naturally going to fight it out in myown way if it takes all winter. "

Natalie, gathering her refusal from Clayton's protest, had heaved a sighof relief. Not that she objected to Delight Haverford. She liked her asmuch as she liked and understood any young girl, which was very little. But she did not want Graham to marry. To marry would be to lose him. And again, watching Clayton's handsome head above his newspaper, shereflected that Graham was all she had. 

Nevertheless, Delight received a lesson in driving from Graham, and thatwithin two days. 

On Saturday afternoon, finding the mill getting on his nerves, Claytonsuggested to Graham what might be the last golf of the autumn and Grahamconsented cheerfully enough. For one thing, the offices closed at noon, and Anna Klein had gone. He was playing a little game with Anna--alight-hearted matter of a glance now and then caught and held, a touchedhand, very casually done, and an admiring comment now and then on herwork. And Anna was blossoming like a flower. She sat up late to makefresh white blouses for the office, and rose early to have abundance oftime to dress. She had taken to using a touch of rouge, too, althoughshe put it on after she reached the mill, and took it off before shestarted for home. 

Her father, sullen and irritable these days, would have probably beatenher for using it. 

But Anna had gone, and a telephone call to Marion Hayden had told himshe was not at home. He thought it possible she had gone to the countryclub, and accepted his father's suggestion of golf willingly. 

From the moment he left the mill Anna had left his mind. He was at thatperiod when always in the back of his mind there was a girl. During themill hours the girl was Anna, because she was there. In the afternoon itwas Marion, just then, but even at that there were entire evenings when, at the theater, a pretty girl in the chorus held and absorbed his entireattention--or at a dance a debutante, cloudy and mysterious in whitechiffon, bounded his universe for a few hours. 

On this foundation of girl he built the superstructure of his days. Notevil, but wholly irresponsible. The urge of vital youth had caught himand held him. And Clayton, sitting that day beside him in the car, while Graham drove and the golf clubs rattled in their bags at his feet, remembered again the impulses of his own adolescence, and wondered. There had been a time when he would have gone to the boy frankly, withthe anxieties he was beginning to feel. There were so many things hewanted to tell the boy. So many warnings he should have. 

But Natalie had stolen him. That was what it amounted to. She had stolenhis confidence, as only a selfish woman could. And against that cabal ofmother and son he felt helpless. It was even more than that. As againstNatalie's indulgence he did not wish to pose as a mentor pointing outalways the way of duty. 

"How old are you, Graham?" he said suddenly. 

"Twenty-two. " Graham glanced at him curiously. His father knew his age, of course. 

"I was married at your age. "

"Tough luck, " said Graham. And then: "I'm sorry, father, I didn't meanthat. But it's pretty early, isn't it? No time for a good time, oranything. "

"I fancy Nature meant men to marry young, don't you? It saves a lotof--complications. "

"The girl a fellow marries at that age isn't often the one he'd marryat thirty, " said Graham. And feeling that he had said the wrong thing, changed the subject quickly. Clayton did not try to turn it back intoits former channel. The boy was uncomfortable, unresponsive. There was abarrier between them, of self-consciousness on his part, of evasion anddiscomfort on Graham's. 

On the way over they had sighted Delight in the new car. She hadtried to turn, had backed into a ditch and was at that moment ruefullysurveying a machine which had apparently sat down on its rear wheelswith its engine pointed pathetically skyward. 

Delight's face fell when she recognized them. 

"Of course it would have to be you, " she said. "Of all the people whomight have seen my shame--I'm going on with you. I never want to see theold thing again. "

"Anything smashed?" Graham inquired. 

"It looks smashed. I can't tell. "

It was not until the car was out of the ditch, and Clayton had drivenoff in Graham's car toward the club that Delight remembered her father'svoice the day he had told her Graham would teach her to drive. Shestiffened and he was quick to see the change in her manner. The totaldamage was one flat tire, and while the engine was inflating it, helooked at her. She had grown to be quite pretty. His eyes approved her. 

"Better let me come round and give you a few lessons, Delight. "

"I'd rather learn by myself, if you don't mind. "

"You'll have a real smash unless you learn properly. "

But she remained rather obstinately silent. 

"What's the matter with me, Delight? You're not exactly crazy about me, are you?"

"That's silly. I don't know anything about you any more. "

"That's your fault. You know I've been away for four years, and sinceI came back I haven't seen much of you. But, if you'll let me comeround--"

"You can come if you like. You'll be bored, probably. "

"You're being awfully nasty, you know. Here I come to pull you out ofa ditch and generally rescue you, and--Come, now, Delight, what is it?There's something. We used to be pals. "

"I don't know, Graham, " she said truthfully. "I only know--well, I hearthings, of course. Nothing very bad. Just little things. I wish youwouldn't insist. It's idiotic. What does it matter what I think?"

Graham flushed. He knew well enough one thing she had heard. Her fatherand mother had been at dinner the other night, and he had had too muchto drink. 

"Sorry. "

He stopped the pump and put away the tools, all in silence. Goodheavens, was all the world divided into two sorts of people: theknockers--and under that heading he placed his father, Delight, and allthose who occasionally disapproved of him--and the decent sort who likeda fellow and understood him?

But his training had been too good to permit him to show his angryscorn. He made an effort and summoned a smile. 

"All ready, " he said. "And since you won't let me teach you, perhaps I'dbetter take you home. "

"You were going to the club. "

"Oh, that's all right. Father's probably found some one. "

But she insisted that he drive them both to the club, and turn the carround there. Then, with a grinding of gear levers that made him groan, she was off toward home, leaving Graham staring after her. 

"Well, can you beat it?" he inquired of the empty air. "Can you beatit?"

And wounded in all the pride of new manhood, he joined Marion and herrather riotous crowd around the fire inside the clubhouse. Clayton hadgiven him up and was going around alone, followed by a small caddie. The links were empty, and the caddie lonely. He ventured small bits ofconversation now and then, looking up with admiration at Clayton's tallfigure. And, after a little, Clayton took the bag from him and used himonly for retrieving balls. The boy played round, whistling. 

"Kinda quiet to-day, ain't it?" he offered, trudging a foot or twobehind. 

"It is, rather, young man. "

"Mostly on Saturdays I caddie for Mr. Valentine. But he's gone to thewar. "

"Oh, he has, has he?" Clayton built a small tee, and placed his ball onit. "Well, maybe we'll all be going some day. "

He drove off and started after the ball. It was not until he was on thegreen that he was conscious of the boy beside him again. 

"How old d'you have to be to get into the army, Mr. Spencer?" inquiredthe caddie, anxiously. 

Clayton looked at him quizzically. 

"Want to try for it, do you? Well, I'm afraid you'll have to wait abit. "

"I'm older than I look, Mr. Spencer. "

"How old are you?"

"Sixteen. "

"Afraid you'll have to wait a while, " said Clayton and achieved awell-nigh perfect long putt. 

"I'd just like to get a whack at them Germans, " offered the boy, andgetting no response, trudged along again at his heels. 

Suddenly it struck Clayton as rather strange that, in all the time sincehis return from Europe, only four people had shown any but a sort ofacademic interest in the war, and that, ironically enough, a German hadbeen the first to make a sacrifice for principle. Chris had gone, to getout of trouble. The little caddie wanted to go, to get a "whack" at themadmen of Europe. And Jackson, the chauffeur, was going, giving up hisexcellent wages to accept the thirty-odd dollars a month of a non-com, from a pure sense of responsibility. 

But, among the men he knew best, in business and in the clubs, the warstill remained a magnificent spectacle. A daily newspaper drama. 

Suddenly Clayton saw Audrey Valentine. She was swinging toward him, herbag with its clubs slung over her shoulder, her hands in the pockets ofan orange-colored sweater. In her black velvet tam and short skirt shehad looked like a little girl, and at first he did not recognize her. She had seen him, however, and swung toward him. 

"Hello, Clay, " she called, when they were within hailing distance. "Bully shot, that last. "

"Where's your caddie?"

"I didn't want one. I had a feeling that, if I took one, and he lost aball in these impecunious times of mine, I'd murder him. Saw you at thefifth hole. I'd know your silhouette anywhere. "

Under her rakish cap her eyes were rather defiant. She did not wantpity; she almost dared him to pity her. 

"Come round again with me, Audrey, won't you?"

"I'm off my game to-day. I'll wander along, if you don't mind. I'llprobably sneeze or something when you're driving, of course. "

"Nothing, " he said, gravely approaching his ball, "so adds distance tomy drive as a good explosive sneeze just behind it. "

They talked very little. Audrey whistled as she walked along with thefree swinging step that was characteristic of her, and Clayton wassatisfied merely to have her companionship. She was not like some women;a man didn't have to be paying her compliments or making love to her. She even made no comments on his shots, and after a time that ratherannoyed him. 

"Well?" he demanded, after an excellent putt. "Was that good or wasn'tit?"

"Very good, " she said gravely. "I am only surprised when you do a thingbadly. Not when you do it well. "

He thought that over. 

"Have you anything in mind that I do badly? I mean, particularly inmind. "

"Not very much. " But after a moment: "Why don't you make Natalie playgolf?"

"She hates it. "

He rather wondered if she thought Natalie was one of the things hemanaged badly. 

The sense of companionship warmed him. Although neither of them realizedit, their mutual loneliness and dissatisfaction had brought themtogether, and mentally at least they were clinging, each desperately tothe other. But their talk was disjointed:

"I'll return that hundred soon. I've sold the house. "

"I wish you wouldn't worry about it. It's ridiculous, Audrey. "

And, a hundred yards or so further on, "They wouldn't have Chris inCanada. His heart. He's going into the French Ambulance service. "

"Good for Chris. "

But she came out very frankly, when they started back to the clubhouse. 

"It's done me a lot of good, meeting you, Clay. There's something so bigand solid and dependable about you. I wonder--I suppose you don't mindmy using you as a sort of anchor to windward?"

"Good heavens, Audrey! If I could only do something. "

"You don't have to do a thing. " She smiled up at him, and her oldaudacity was quite gone. "You've just got to be. And--you don't have tosend me flowers, you know. I mean, I understand that you're sorry forme, without that. You're the only person in the world I'd allow to besorry for me. "

He was touched. There was no coquetry in her manner. She paid her littletribute quite sincerely and frankly. 

"I've been taking stock to-day, " she went on, "and I put you among myassets. One reliable gentleman, six feet tall, weight about a hundredand seventy, in good condition. Heavens, what a lot of liabilities youhad to off-set!"

He stopped and looked down at her. 

"Audrey dear, " he said, "what am I to say to all that? What can I do?How can I help?"

"You might tell me--No, that's silly. "

"What is silly?"

But she did not answer. She called "Joey!" and gave him her clubs. 

"Joey wants to be a soldier, " she observed. 

"So he says. "

"I want to be a soldier, too, Clay. A good soldier. "

He suspected that she was rather close to unusual tears. 

As they approached the clubhouse they saw Graham and Marion Haydenstanding outside. Graham was absently dropping balls and swinging atthem. It was too late when Clayton saw the danger and shouted sharply. 

A ball caught the caddie on the side of the head and he dropped like ashot. 

All through that night Clayton and Audrey Valentine sat by the boy'swhite bed in the hospital. Clayton knew Graham was waiting outside, buthe did not go out to speak to him. He was afraid of himself, afraid inhis anger that he would widen the breach between them. 

Early in the evening Natalie had come, in a great evening-coat thatlooked queerly out of place, but she had come, he knew, not throughsympathy for the thin little figure on the bed, but as he had known shewould come, to plead for Graham. And her cry of joy when the surgeonshad said the boy would live was again for Graham. 

She had been too engrossed to comment on Audrey's presence there, andAudrey had gone out immediately and left them together. Clayton wasforced, that night, to an unwilling comparison of Natalie with anotherwoman. On the surface of their lives, where only they met, Natalie hadalways borne comparison well. But here was a new standard to measure by, and another woman, a woman with hands to serve and watchful, intelligenteyes, outmeasured her. 

Not that Clayton knew all this. He felt, in a vague way, that Nataliewas out of place there, and he felt, even more strongly, that she hadnot the faintest interest in the still figure on its white bed--save asit touched Graham and herself. 

He was resentful, too, that she felt it necessary to plead with himfor his own boy. Good God, if she felt that way about him, no wonderGraham--

She had placed a hand on Clayton's arm, as he sat in that endless vigil, and bent down to whisper, although no sound would have penetrated thatdeath-like stupor. 

"It was an accident, Clay, " she pled. "You know Graham's the kindestsoul in the world. You know that, Clay. "

"He had been drinking. " His voice sounded cold and strained to his ownears. 

"Not much. Almost nothing, Toots says positively. "

"Then I'd rather he had been, Natalie. If he drove that ball out ofwanton indifference--"

"He didn't see the boy. "

"He should have looked. "

In her anger she ceased her sibilant whispering, and stood erect. 

"I told him you'd be hard, " she said. "He's outside, half-sick withfright, because he is afraid. Afraid of you, " she added, and went out, her silks rustling in the quiet corridor. 

She had gone away soon after that, the nurse informed him. And towarddawn Clayton left Audrey in the sick room and found Graham. He wasasleep in a chair in the waiting-room, and looked boyish and very tired. Clayton's heart contracted. 

He went back to his vigil, and let Graham sleep on. 

Some time later he roused from a doze in his chair. Graham was acrossthe bed from him, looking down. Audrey was gone. And the injured boystirred and opened his eyes. 

"H-hello, Joey, " said Graham, with a catch in his voice. 

Joey lay still, his eyes taking in his new surroundings. Then he put outa hand and touched the bandage on his head. 

"What I got on?" he demanded, faintly. 

Graham caught his father's eyes across the bed, and smiled a shaky, tremulous smile. 

"I guess he's all right, Father, " he said. And suddenly crumpled upbeside the bed, and fell into a paroxysm of silent sobbing. With his armaround the boy's shoulders, Clayton felt in that gray dawn the greatestthankfulness of his life. Joey would live. That cup was taken from hisboy's lips. And he and Graham were together again, close together. The boy's grip on his hand was tight. Please God, they would always betogether from now on. 

CHAPTER IX

Clayton did not care to tell Natalie of Chris's flight. She would learnit soon enough, he knew, and he felt unwilling to discuss the affair asNatalie would want to discuss it. Not that he cared about Chris, but hehad begun to feel a protective interest in Audrey Valentine, an interestthat had in it a curious aversion to hearing her name in connection withChris's sordid story. 

He and Natalie met rarely in the next few days. He dined frequently athis club with men connected in various ways with the new enterprise, andtransacted an enormous amount of business over the dinner or luncheontable. Natalie's door was always closed on those occasions when hereturned, and he felt that with the stubbornness characteristic of hershe was still harboring resentment against him for what he had said atthe hospital. 

He knew she was spending most of her days at Linndale, and he had avague idea that she and Rodney together had been elaborating stillfurther on the plans for the house. It was the furtiveness of it ratherthan the fact itself that troubled him. He was open and straightforwardhimself. Why couldn't Natalie be frank with him?

It was Mrs. Haverford, punctually paying her dinner-call in an age whichexacts dinner-calls no longer--even from its bachelors--who broughtNatalie the news of Chris's going. Natalie, who went down to see herwith a mental protest, found her at a drawing-room window, makingviolent signals at somebody without, and was unable to conceal heramazement. 

"It's Delight, " explained Mrs. Haverford. "She's driving me round. Shewon't come in, and she's forgotten her fur coat. And it's simply bitteroutside. Well, my dear, how are you?"

Natalie was well, and said so. She was conscious that Mrs. Haverfordwas listening with only half an ear, and indeed, a moment later she hadrisen again and hurried to the window. 

"Natalie!" she cried. "Do come and watch. She's turning the car. We dothink she drives wonderfully. Only a few days, too. "

"Why won't she come in?"

"I'm sure I don't know. Unless she is afraid Graham may be here. "

"What in the world has Graham got to do with it?" Natalie's voice wasfaintly scornful. 

"I was going to ask you that, Natalie. Have they quarreled, oranything?"

"I don't think they meet at all, do they?"

"They met once since Clayton gave Doctor Haverford the car. Grahamhelped her when she had got into a ditch, I believe. And I thoughtperhaps they had quarreled about something. "

"That would imply a degree of intimacy that hardly exists, does it?"Natalie said, sharply. 

But Mrs. Haverford had not fought the verbal battles of the parish fortwenty years in vain. 

"It was the day of that unfortunate incident at the country club, Natalie. "

Natalie colored. 

"Accident, rather than incident. "

"How is the poor child?"

"He is quite well again, " Natalie said impatiently "I can not understandthe amount of fuss every one makes over the boy. He ran in front ofwhere Graham was driving and got what he probably deserved. "

"I understand Clayton has given him a position. "

"He has made him an office boy. "

"How like dear Clayton!" breathed Mrs. Haverford, and counted the honorsas hers. But she had not come to quarrel. She had had, indeed, a franklybenevolent purpose in coming, and she proceeded to carry it out at once. 

"I do think, my dear, " she said, "that some one ought to tell AudreyValentine the stories that are going about. "

"What has she been doing?" Natalie asked, with her cool smile. "There isalways some story about Audrey, isn't there?"

"Do you mean to say you haven't heard?"

"I don't hear much gossip. "

Mrs. Haverford let that pass. 

"You know how rabid she has been about the war. Well, the story is, " shewent on, with a certain unction, "that she has driven Chris to enlistingin the Foreign Legion, or something. Anyhow, he sailed from Halifax lastweek. "

Natalie straightened in her chair. 

"Are you certain?"

"It's town talk, my dear. Doctor Haverford spoke to Clayton about itsome days ago. He rather gathered Clayton already knew. "

That, too, was like dear Clayton, Natalie reflected bitterly. He hadtold her nothing. In her heart she added secretiveness to the long listof Clayton's deficiencies toward her. 

"Personally, I imagine they were heavily in debt, " Mrs. Haverford wenton. "They had been living beyond their means, of course. I like Mrs. Valentine, but I do think, to drive a man to his death, or what may behis death--"

"I don't believe it. I don't believe he went to fight, anyway. He wasprobably in some sort of a scrape. "

"She has sold her house. "

Natalie's impulse of sympathy toward Audrey was drowned in her risingindignation. That all this could happen and Audrey not let her know wasincredible. 

"I haven't seen her recently, " she said coldly. 

"Nobody has. I do think she might have seen her clergyman. There is atime when only the church can give us the comfort we need, my dear. "

And whatever Mrs. Haverford's faults, she meant that quite simply. 

"And you say Clay knew?"

"It's rather likely he would. They were golfing together, weren't they, when that caddie was hurt?"

Natalie was not a jealous woman. She had, for years, taken Clay'sfaithfulness for granted, and her own complacency admitted no chance ofsuch a possibility. But she was quick to realize that she had him at adisadvantage. 

"How long have you known it?" she asked him that night, when, after thelong dinner was over, she sat with her elbows on the table and faced himacross the candles. 

He was tired and depressed, and his fine face looked drawn. But heroused and smiled across at her. He had begun to have a feeling that hemust make up to Natalie for something--he hardly knew for what. 

"Known what, dear?"

"About Chris and Audrey?"

He was fundamentally honest, so he answered her directly. 

"Since the day Chris left. "

"When was that?"

"The day we dined there. "

"And Audrey told you?"

"She had to, in a way. I'm sure she'll tell you herself. She's beenrather hiding away, I imagine. "

"Why did she have to tell you?"

"If you want the exact truth, she borrowed a small sum from me, as thebanks were closed, naturally. There was some emergency--I don't knowwhat. "

"She borrowed from you!"

"A very small amount, my dear. Don't look like that, Natalie. She knew Igenerally carried money with me. "

"Oh, I'm not jealous! Audrey probably thinks of you as a sort ofgrandfather, anyhow. It's not that. It is your keeping the thing fromme. "

"It was not my secret. "

But Natalie was jealous. She had that curious jealousy of her friendswhich some women are cursed with, of being first in their regard andtheir confidence. A slow and smoldering anger against Audrey, which hadnothing whatever to do with Clayton, darkened her eyes. 

"I'm through with Audrey. That's all, " she said. 

And the man across regarded her with a sort of puzzled wonder. 

Her indignation against Clayton took the form of calculation; and shewas quick to pursue her advantage. In the library she produced the newand enlarged plans for the house. 

"Roddie says he has tried to call you at the mill, but you are alwaysout of your office. So he sent these around to-day. "

True to the resolution he had made that night in the hospital, he wentover them carefully. And even their magnitude, while it alarmed him, brought no protest from him. After all the mill and the new plant werehis toys to play with. He found there something to fill up the emptinessof his life. If a great house was Natalie's ambition, if it gave herpleasure and something to live for, she ought to have it. 

She had prepared herself for a protest, but he made none, even when therather startling estimate was placed before him. 

"I just want you to be happy, my dear, " he said. "But I hope you'llarrange not to run over the estimate. It is being pretty expensive as itis. But after all, success doesn't mean anything, unless we are going toget something out of it. "

They were closer together that evening than they had been for months. And at last he fell to talking about the mill. Natalie, curled up onthe chaise longue in her boudoir, listened attentively, but with smallcomprehension as he poured out his dream, for himself now, for Grahamlater. A few years more and he would retire. Graham could take holdthen. He might even go into politics. He would be fifty then, and aman of fifty should be in his prime. And to retire and do nothing wasimpossible. A fellow went to seed. 

Eyes on the wood fire, he talked on until at last, roused by Natalie'ssilence, he glanced up. She was sound asleep. 

Some time later, in his dressing-gown and slippers, he came and rousedher. She smiled up at him like a drowsy child. 

"Awfully tired, " she said. "Is Graham in?"

"Not yet. "

She held up her hands, and he drew her to her feet. 

"You've been awfully dear about the house, " she said. And standing ontiptoe, she kissed him on the cheek. Still holding both her hands, helooked down at her gravely. 

"Do you really think that, Natalie?"

"Of course. "

"Then--will you do something in return?"

Her eyes became shrewd, watchful. 

"Anything in reason. "

"Don't, don't, dear, make Graham afraid of me. "

"As if I did! If he is afraid of you, it is your own fault"

"Perhaps it is. But I try--good God, Natalie, I do try. He needs a curbnow and then. All boys do. But if we could only agree on it--don't yousee how it is now?" he asked, trying to reason gently with her. "All thediscipline comes from me, all the indulgence from you. And--I don't wantto lose my boy, my dear. "

She freed her hands. 

"So we couldn't even have one happy evening!" she said. "I won't quarrelwith you, Clay. And I won't be tragic over Graham. If you'll just behuman to him, he'll come out all right. "

She went into her bedroom, the heavy lace of her negligee trailingbehind her, and closed the door. 

Clayton had a visitor the next morning at the mill, a man named Dunbar, who marked on his visitors' slip, under the heading of his business withthe head of the concern, the words, "Private and confidential. "

Clayton, looking up, saw a small man, in a suit too large for him, and with ears that projected wide on either side of a shrewd, ratherhumorous face. 

"Mr. Spencer?"

"Yes. Sit down, please. "

Even through the closed window the noise of the mill penetrated. Theyard-engine whistled shrilly. The clatter of motor-trucks, the far awayroar of the furnaces, the immediate vicinity of many typewriters, made avery bedlam of sound. Mr. Dunbar drew his chair closer, and laid a cardon the desk. 

"My credentials, " he explained. 

Clayton read the card. 

"Very well, Mr. Dunbar. What can I do for you?"

Dunbar fixed him with shrewd, light eyes, and bent forward. 

"Have you had any trouble in your mill, Mr. Spencer?"

"None whatever. "

"Are you taking any measures to prevent trouble?"

"I had expected to. Not that I fear anything, but of course no one cantell. We have barely commenced to get lined up for our new work. "

"May I ask the nature of the precautions?"

Clayton told him, with an uneasy feeling that Mr. Dunbar was findingthem childish and inefficient. 

"Exactly, " said his visitor. "And well enough as far as they go. Theydon't go far enough. The trouble with you manufacturers is that you onlyrecognize one sort of trouble, and that's a strike. I suppose you knowthat the Kaiser has said, if we enter the war, that he need not send anarmy here at all. That his army is here already, armed and equipped. "

"Bravado, " said Clayton. 

"I wonder!"

Mr. Dunbar reached into his breast pocket, and produced a long typedmemorandum. 

"You might just glance at that. "

Clayton read it carefully. It was a list of fires, mostly in granariesand warehouses, and the total loss was appalling. 

"All German work, " said his visitor. "Arson, for the Fatherland. Allsupplies for the Allies, you see. I've got other similar lists, here, all German deviltry. And they're only commencing. If we go into thewar--"

The immediate result of the visit was that Clayton became a member of aprotective league which undertook, with his cooperation, to policeand guard the mill. But Mr. Dunbar's last words left him thinkingprofoundly. 

"We're going to be in it, that's sure. And soon. And Germany's armyis here. It's not only Germans either. It's the I. W. W. , for one thing. We've got a list through the British post-office censor, of a lotof those fellows who are taking German money to-day. They're againsteverything. Not only work. They're against law and order. And they'relikely to raise hell. "

He rose to leave. 

"How do your Germans like making shells for the Allies?" he asked. 

"We haven't a great many. We've had no trouble. One man resigned--a bossroller. That's all. "

"Watch him. He's got a grievance. "

"He's been here a long time. I haven't an idea he'd do us any harm. Itwas a matter of principle with him. "

"Oh, it's a matter of principle with all of them. They can justifythemselves seven ways to the ace. Keep an eye on him, or let us do itfor you. "

Clayton sat for some time after Dunbar had gone. Was it possible thatKlein, or men like Klein, old employees and faithful for years, could bereached by the insidious wickedness of Germany? It was incredible. Butthen the whole situation was incredible; that a peaceful and home-lovingpeople, to all appearances, should suddenly shed the sheep skin of yearsof dissimulation, and appear as the wolves of the world. 

One of his men had died on the Lusitania, a quiet little chap, with afamily in the suburbs and a mania for raising dahlias. He had been inthe habit of bringing in his best specimens, and putting them in wateron Clayton's desk. His pressed glass vase was still there, empty. 

Then his mind went back to Herman Klein. He had a daughter in the mill. She was earning the livelihood for the family now, temporarily. And theGermans were thrifty. If for no other reason he thought Klein would notimperil either his daughter's safety or her salary. 

There was a good bit of talk about German hate, but surely there was nohate in Klein. 

Something else Dunbar had said stuck in his mind. 

"We've got to get wise, and soon. It's too big a job for the regulardepartments to handle. Every city in the country and every town oughtto have a civilian organization to watch and to fight it if it has to. They're hiding among us everywhere, and every citizen has got to be asleuth, if we're to counter their moves. Every man his own detective!"

He had smiled as he said it, but Clayton had surmised a greatearnestness and considerable knowledge behind the smile. 

CHAPTER X

Delight Haverford was to come out in December, but there were times whenthe Doctor wondered if she was really as keen about it as she pretendedto be. He found her once or twice, her usually active hands idle in herlap, and a pensive droop to her humorous young mouth. 

"Tired, honey?" he asked, on one of those occasions. 

"No. Just talking to myself. "

"Say a few nice things for me, while you're about it, then. "

"Nice things! I don't deserve them. "

"What awful crime have you been committing? Break it to me gently. Youknow my weak heart. "

"Your tobacco heart!" she said, severely. "Well, I've been committing amental murder, if you want to know the facts. Don't protest. It's done. She's quite dead already. "

"Good gracious! And I have reared this young viper! Who is she?"

"I don't intend to make you an accessory, daddy. "

But' behind her smile he felt a real hurt. He would have given a greatdeal to have taken her in his arms and tried to coax out her troubleso he might comfort her. But that essential fineness in him whichhis worldliness only covered like a veneer told him not to force herconfidence. Only, he wandered off rather disconsolately to hunt his pipeand to try to realize that Delight was now a woman grown, and liable towoman's heart-aches. 

"What do you think it is?" he asked that night, when after her nightlycustom Mrs. Haverford had reached over from the bed beside his and witha single competent gesture had taken away his book and switched off hisreading lamp, and he had, with the courage of darkness, voiced a certainuneasiness. 

"Who do you think it is, you mean. "

"Very well, only the word is 'whom. '"

Mrs. Haverford ignored this. 

"It's that Hayden girl, " she said. "Toots. And Graham Spencer. "

"Do you think that Delight--"

"She always has. For years. "

Which was apparently quite clear to them both. 

"If it had only been a nice girl, " Mrs. Haverford protested, plaintively. "But Toots! She's fast, I'm sure of it. "

"My dear!"

"And that boy needs a decent girl, if anybody ever did. A shallowmother, and a money-making father--all Toots Hay den wants is his money. She's ages older than he is. I hear he is there every day and all ofSundays. "

The rector had precisely as much guile as a turtle dove, and long, afterMrs. Haverford gave unmistakable evidences of slumber, he lay with hisarms above his head, and plotted. He had no conscience whatever aboutit. He threw his scruples to the wind, and if it is possible to followthe twists of a theological mind turned from the straight and narrow wayinto the maze of conspiracy, his thoughts ran something like this:

"She is Delight. Therefore to see her is to love her. To see herwith any other girl is to see her infinite superiority and charm. Therefore--"

Therefore, on the following Sunday afternoon, the totally unsuspectingdaughter of a good man gone wrong took a note from the rector tothe Hayden house, about something or other of no importance, and wasinstructed to wait for an answer. And the rector, vastly uneasy andrather pleased with himself, took refuge in the parish house and waitedten eternities, or one hour by the clock. 

Delight herself was totally unsuspicious. The rectory on a Sundayafternoon was very quiet, and she was glad to get away. She drove over, and being in no hurry she went by the Spencer house. She did thatnow and then, making various excuses to herself, such as liking thepoliceman at the corner or wanting to see the river from the end of thestreet. But all she saw that day was Rodney Page going in, in a top hatand very bright gloves. 

"Precious!" said Delight to herself. Her bump of reverence was verysmall. 

But she felt a little thrill, as she always did, when she passed thehouse. Since she could remember she had cared for Graham. She did notactually know that she loved him. She told herself bravely that shewas awfully fond of him, and that it was silly, because he never wouldamount to anything. But she had a little argument of her own, for suchoccasions, which said that being really fond of any one meant knowingall about them and liking them anyhow. 

She stopped the car at the Hayden house, and carried her note to thedoor. When she went in, however, she was instantly uncomfortable. Theplace reeked with smoke, and undeniably there was dancing going onsomewhere. A phonograph was scraping noisily. Delight's small noselifted a little. What a deadly place! Coming in from the fresh outdoors, the noise and smoke and bar-room reek stifled her. 

Then a door opened, and Marion Hayden was drawing her into a room. 

"How providential, Delight!" she said. "You'll take my hand, won't you?It's Graham's dummy, and we want to dance. "

The two connecting rooms were full of people, and the air was heavy. Through the haze she saw Graham, and nodded to him, but with a littlesinking of the heart. She was aware, however, that he was looking at herwith a curious intentness and a certain expectancy. Maybe he only hopedshe would let him dance with Toots. 

"No, thanks, " she said. "Sorry. "

"Why not, Delight? Just a hand, anyhow. "

"Three good reasons: I don't play cards on Sunday; I don't ever play formoney; and I'm stifling for breath already in this air. "

She was, indeed, a little breathless. 

There was, had she only seen it, relief in Graham's face. She did notbelong there, he felt. Delight was--well, she was different. He hadnot been thinking of her before she came in; he forgot her promptly themoment she went out. But she had given him, for an instant, a breathof the fresh out-doors, and quietness and--perhaps something clean andfine. 

There was an insistent clamor that she stay, and Tommy Hale even gotdown on his knees and made a quite impassioned appeal. But Delight'schin was very high, although she smiled. 

"You are all very nice, " she said. "But I'm sure I'd bore you in aminute, and I'm certain you'd bore me. Besides, I think you're quitelikely to be raided. "

Which met with great applause. 

But there was nothing of Delight of the high head when she got out ofher car and crept up the rectory steps. How could she even have cared?How could she? That was his life, those were the people he chose to playwith. She had a sense of loss, rather than injury. 

The rector, tapping at her door a little later, received the answer tohis note through a very narrow crack, and went away feeling that the wayof the wicked is indeed hard. 

Clayton had been watching with growing concern Graham's intimacywith the gay crowd that revolved around Marion Hayden. It was morethoughtless than vicious; more pleasure-seeking than wicked; but itsinfluence was bad, and he knew it. 

But he was very busy. At night he was too tired to confront theinevitable wrangle with Natalie that any protest about Graham alwaysevoked, and he was anxious not to disturb the new rapprochement with theboy by direct criticism. 

The middle of December, which found the construction work at the newplant well advanced, saw the social season definitely on, also, and hefound himself night after night going to dinners and then on to balls. There were fewer private dances than in previous Winters, but societyhad taken up various war activities and made them fashionable. Theresult was great charity balls. 

On these occasions he found himself watching for Audrey, always. Shehad, with a sort of diabolical cleverness, succeeded in losing herself. Her house was sold, he knew, and he had expected that she would lethim know where to find her. She had said she counted on him, and he hadderived an odd sort of comfort from the thought. It had warmed himto think that, out of all the people he knew, to one woman he meantsomething more than success. 

But although he searched the gayest crowds with his eyes, thosehilarious groups of which she had been so frequently the center, he didnot find her. And there had been no letter save a brief one without anaddress, enclosing her check for the money she had borrowed. She hadapparently gone, not only out of her old life, but out of his as well. 

At one of the great charity balls he met Nolan, and they stood togetherwatching the crowd. 

"Pretty expensive, I take it, " Nolan said, indicating the scene. "Orchestra, florist, supper--I wonder how much the Belgians will get. "

"Personally, I'd rather send the money and get some sleep. "

"Precisely. But would you send the money? We've got to have a quidpro quo, you know-most of us. " He surveyed the crowd with cynical, dissatisfied eyes. "At the end of two years of the war, " he observed, apropos of nothing, "five million men are dead, and eleven million havebeen wounded. A lot of them were doing this sort of thing two yearsago. "

"I would like to know where we will be two years from now. "

"Some of us won't be here. Have you seen Lloyd George's speech on theGerman peace terms? That means going on to the end. A speedy peace mighthave left us out, but there will be no peace. Not yet, or soon. "

"And still we don't prepare!"

"The English tradition persists, " said the Irishman, bitterly. "We wantto wait, and play to the last moment, and then upset our business andoverthrow the whole country, trying to get ready in a hurry. 

"I wonder what they will do, when the time comes, with men like you andmyself?"

"Take our money, " said Nolan viciously. "Tax our heads off. Thank God Ihaven't a son. "

Clayton eyed him with the comprehension of long acquaintance. 

"Exactly, " he said. "But you'll go yourself, if you can. "

"And fight for England? I will not. "

He pursued the subject further, going into an excited account ofIreland's grievances. He was flushed and loquacious. He quoted LloydGeorge's "quagmire of distrust" in tones raised over the noise of theband. And Clayton was conscious of a growing uneasiness. How much ofit was real, how much a pose? Was Nolan representative of the culturedIrishman in America? And if he was, what would be the effect of theiranti-English mania? Would we find ourselves, like the British, splitinto factions? Or would the country be drawn together by trouble untilit changed from a federation of states to a great nation, united andunbeatable?

Were we really the melting pot of the world, and was war the fieryfurnace which was to fuse us together, or were there elements, likeNolan, like the German-Americans, that would never fuse?

He left Nolan still irritable and explosive, and danced once withNatalie, his only dance of the evening. Then, finding that Rodney Pagewould see her to her car later, he went home. 

He had a vague sense of disappointment, a return of the critical mood ofthe early days of his return from France. He went to his room and triedto read, but he gave it up, and lay, cigaret in hand, thinking!

There ought to have come to a man, when he reached the middle span, certain compensations for the things that had gone with his youth, thecall of adventure, the violent impulses of his early love life. Thereshould come, to take their place, friends, a new zest in the romance ofachievement, since other romance had gone, and--peace. But the peaceof the middle span of life should be the peace of fulfillment, and of ahome and a woman. 

Natalie was not happy, but she seemed contented enough. Her lifesatisfied her. The new house in the day-time, bridge, the theater in theevening or the opera, dinners, dances, clothes--they seemed to be enoughfor her. But his life was not enough for him. What did he want anyhow?In God's name, what did he want?

One night, impatient with himself, he picked up the book of love lyricsin its mauve cover, from his bedside table. He read one, then another. He read them slowly, engrossingly. It was as though something starved inhim was feeding eagerly on this poor food. Their passion stirred him asin his earlier years he had never been stirred. For just a little time, while Natalie danced that night, Clayton Spencer faced the tragedy ofthe man in his prime, still strong and lusty with life, with the deeperpassions of the deepening years, who has outgrown and outloved the womanhe married. 

A man's house must be built on love. Without love it can not stand. 

Natalie, coming in much later and seeing his light still on, found himsleeping, with one arm under his head, and a small black hole burned inthe monogrammed linen sheet. The book of poems had slipped to the floor. 

The next day she missed it from its place, and Clayton's man, interrogated, said he had asked to have it put away somewhere. He didnot care for it. Natalie raised her eyebrows. She had thought the poemsrather pretty. 

One resolution Clayton made, as a result of that night. He would not seeAudrey again if he could help it. He was not in love with her and he didnot intend to be. He was determinedly honest with himself. Men inhis discontented state were only too apt to build up a dream-woman, compounded of their own starved fancy, and translate her into terms ofthe first attractive woman who happened to cross the path. He was notgoing to be a driveling idiot, like Chris and some of the other men heknew. Things were bad, but they could be much worse. 

It happened then that when Audrey called him at the mill a day or solater it was a very formal voice that came back to her over the wire. She was quick to catch his tone. 

"I suppose you hate being called in business hours, Clay!"

"Not at all. "

"That means yes, you know. But I'm going even further. I'm coming downto see you. "

"Why, is anything wrong?"

He could hear her laughter, a warm little chuckle. 

"Don't be so urgent, " she said gayly. "I want to consult you. That'sall. May I come?"

There was a second's pause. Then, "Don't you think I'd better come to see you?"

"I've only a little flat. I don't think you'll like it. "

"That's nonsense. Where is it?"

She gave him the address. 

"When shall I come?"

"Whenever it suits you. I have nothing to do. Say this afternoon aboutfour. "

That "nothing to do" was an odd change, in itself, for Audrey had beenin the habit of doling out her time like sweetmeats. 

"Where in the world have you been all this time?" he demanded, almostangrily. To his own surprise he was suddenly conscious of a sense ofindignation and affront. She had said she depended on him, and then shehad gone away and hidden herself. It was ridiculous. 

"Just getting acquainted with myself, " she replied, with something ofher old airy manner. "Good-by. "

His irritation passed as quickly as it came. He felt calm and very sureof himself, and rather light-hearted. Joey, who was by now installedas an office adjunct, and who commonly referred to the mill as "ours, "heard him whistling blithely and cocked an ear in the direction of theinner room. 

"Guess we've made another million dollars, " he observed to thepencil-sharpener. 

Clayton was not in the habit of paying afternoon calls on women. Thenumber of such calls that he had paid without Natalie during his marriedlife could have been numbered on the fingers of his two hands. Most ofthe men he knew paid such visits, dropping in somewhere for tea or ahighball on the way uptown. He had preferred his club, when he had alittle time, the society of other men. 

He wondered if he should call Natalie and tell her. But he decidedagainst it. It was possible, for one thing, that Audrey still did notwish her presence in town known. If she did, she would tell Natalieherself. And it was possible, too, that she wanted to discuss Chris, andthe reason for his going. 

He felt a real sense of relief, when at last he saw her, to find herlooking much the same as ever. He hardly knew what he had expected. Audrey, having warned him as to the apartment, did not mention itspoverty again. It was a tiny little place, but it had an open fire inthe living-room, and plain, pale-yellow walls, and she had given it thatcurious air of distinction with which she managed, in her casual way, toinvest everything about her. 

"I hope you observe how neat I am, " she said, as she gave him her hand. "My rooms, of course. "

"Frightfully so. "

He towered in the low room. Audrey sat down and surveyed him as he stoodby the fire. 

"It is nice to have a man about again. "

"Do you mean to say you have been living here, without even visitors, for two months?"

"You'll laugh. Clay, I'm studying!"

"Studying! What?"

"Stenography. Oh, it's not as bad as that. I don't have to earn myliving. I've just got to do something for my soul's sake. I went allover the ground, and I saw I was just a cumberer of the earth, and thenI thought--"

She hesitated. 

"What did you think?"

"If, some time or other, I could release a man to go and fight, it wouldbe the next best thing to giving myself. Not here, necessarily; I don'tbelieve we will ever go in. But in England, anywhere. "

"You've released Chris. "

"He released himself. And he's not fighting. He's driving an ambulance. "

He waited, hoping she would go on. He was not curious, but he thought itmight be good for her to talk Chris and the trouble over with someone. But she sat silent, and suddenly asked him if he cared for tea. Herefused. 

"How's Natalie?"

"Very well. "

"And the house?"

"Held up by cold weather now. It should be finished by the end ofApril. "

"Clay, " she said, after a moment, "are you going to employ women in thenew munition works?"

"In certain departments, yes. "

"I have a girl I want work for. She's not trained, of course. "

"None of them are. We have to teach them. I can give you a card to theemployment department if you want it. "

"Thanks. "

There was a short silence. She sat looking at the fire, and he had achance to notice the change in her. She had visualized it herself. Herlong ear-rings were gone, and with them some of the insolence they hadseemed to accentuate. She was not rouged, and he had thought at first, for that reason, that she looked ill. She was even differently dressed, in something dark and girlish with a boyish white Eton collar. 

"I wonder if you think I'm hiding, Clay, " she said, finally. 

"Well, what are you doing?" He smiled down at her from the hearth-rug. 

"Paying my bills! That's not all the truth, either. I'll tell you, Clay. I just got sick of it all. When Chris left I had a chance to burn mybridges and I burned them. The same people, the same talk, the samefood, the same days filled with the same silly things that took all mytime and gave me nothing. "

"How long had you been feeling like that?"

"I don't know. Ever since the war, I suppose. I just got to thinking--"

Her voice trailed off. 

"I have some of Chris's Scotch, if you want a high-ball. "

"Thanks, no. Audrey, do you hear from Chris?"

"Yes. He's in a dangerous place now, and sometimes at night--I supposeI did force him, in a way. He was doing no good here, and I thought hewould find himself over there. But I didn't send him. He---Tell me aboutmaking shells. "

He was a little bit disappointed. Evidently she did not depend on himenough to tell him Chris's story. But again, she was being loyal toChris. 

He told her about the mill, phrasing his explanation in the simplestlanguage; the presses drilling on white-hot metal; the great anvils; theforge; the machine-shop, with its lathes, where the rough surfaces ofthe shells were first rough-turned and then machined to the most exactmeasurements. And finding her interested, he told her of England'swomen workers, in their khaki-colored overalls and caps, and of theconvent-like silence and lack of movement in the filling-sheds, whereone entered with rubber-shod feet, and the women, silent and intent, satall day and all night, with queer veils over their faces, filling shellswith the death load. 

Audrey listened, her hands clasped behind her head. 

"If other women can do that sort of thing, why can't I, Clay?"

"Nonsense. "

"But why? I'm intelligent. "

"It's not work for a lady. "

"Lady! How old-fashioned you are! There are no ladies any more. Justwomen. And if we aren't measured by our usefulness instead of ourgeneral not-worth-a-damn-ness, well, we ought to be. Oh, I've had timeto think, lately. "

He was hardly listening. Seeing her, after all those weeks, had broughthim a wonderful feeling of peace. The little room, with its fire, wascozy and inviting. But he was quite sure, looking down at her, that hewas not in danger of falling in love with her. There was no riot in him, no faint stirring of the emotions of that hour with the mauve book. 

There was no suspicion in him that the ways of love change with theyears, that the passions of the forties, when they come, are to those ofthe early years as the deep sea to a shallow lake, less easily roused, infinitely more terrible. 

"This girl you spoke about, that was the business you mentioned?"

"Yes. " She hesitated. "I could have asked you that over the telephone, couldn't I? The plain truth is that I've had two bad months--never mindwhy, and Christmas was coming, and--I just wanted to see your perfectlysane and normal face again. "

"I wish you'd let me know sooner where you were. "

She evaded his eyes. 

"I was getting settled, and studying, and learning to knit, and--oh, I'mthe most wretched knitter, Clay! I just stick at it doggedly. I sayto myself that hands that can play golf, and use a pen, and shoot, anddrive a car, have got to learn to knit. But look here!"

She held up a forlorn looking sock to his amused gaze. "And I think I'ma clever woman. "

"You're a very brave woman, Audrey, " he said. "You'll let me come back, won't you?"

"Heavens, yes. Whenever you like. And I'm going to stop being a recluse. I just wanted to think over some things. "

On the way home he stopped at his florist's, and ordered a mass ofAmerican beauties for her on Christmas morning. She had sent her love toNatalie, so that night he told Natalie he had seen her, and such detailsof her life as he knew. 

"I'm glad she's coming to her senses, " Natalie said. "Everything's beendeadly dull without her. She always made things go--I don't know justhow, " she added, as if she had been turning her over in her mind. "Whatsort of business did she want to see you about?"

"She has a girl she wants to get into the mill. "

"Good gracious, she must be changed, " said Natalie. And proceeded--shewas ready to go out to dinner--to one of her long and critical surveysof herself in the cheval mirror. Recently those surveys had been rathergetting on Clayton's nerves. She customarily talked, not to him, but tohis reflection over her shoulder, when, indeed, she took her eyes fromherself. 

"I wonder, " she said, fussing with a shoulder-strap, "who Audrey willmarry if anything happens to Chris?"

She saw his face and raised her eyebrows. 

"You needn't scowl like that. He's quite as likely as not never to comeback, isn't he? And Audrey didn't care a pin for him. "

"We're talking rather lightly of a very terrible thing, aren't we?"

"Oh, you're not, " she retorted. "You think just the same things as I do, but you're not so open about them. That's all. "

CHAPTER XI

Graham was engaged. He hardly knew himself how it had come about. Hisaffair with Marion had been, up to the very moment of his blurted--out"I want you, " as light-hearted as that of any of the assorted youngcouples who flirted and kissed behind the closed doors of that popularhouse. 

The crowd which frequented the Hayden home was gay, tolerant andoccasionally nasty. It made ardent love semi-promiscuously, it drankrather more than it should, and its desire for a good time often broughtit rather close to the danger line. It did not actually step over, butit hovered gayly on the brink. 

And Toots remained high-priestess of her little cult. The men likedher. The girls imitated her. And Graham, young as he was, seeing herpopularity, was vastly gratified to find himself standing high in herfavor. 

Marion was playing for the stake of the Spencer money. In her intimatecircle every one knew it but Graham. 

"How's every little millionaire?" was Tommy Hale's usual greeting. 

She knew only one way to handle men, and with the stake of the Spencermoney she tried every lure of her experience on Graham. It was alwaysMarion who on cold nights sat huddled against him in the back seat ofthe Hayden's rather shabby car, her warm ungloved hand in his. It wasMarion who taught him to mix the newest of cocktails, and who laterpraised his skill. It was Marion who insisted on his having a third, too, when the second had already set his ears drumming. 

The effect on the boy of her steady propinquity, of her constantcaressing touches, of the general letting-down of the bars of restraint, was to rouse in him impulses of which he was only vaguely conscious, and his proposal of marriage, when it finally came, was by nature of aconfession. He had kissed her, not for the first time, but this time shehad let him hold her, and he had rained kisses on her face. 

"I want you, " he had said, huskily. 

And even afterward, when the thing was done, and she had said she wouldmarry him, she had to ask him if he loved her. 

"I--of course I do, " he had said. And had drawn her back into his arms. 

He wanted to marry her at once. It was the strongest urge of his life, and put into his pleading an almost pathetic earnestness. But she wasfirm enough now. 

"I don't think your family will be crazy about this, you know. "

"What do we care for the family? They're not marrying you, are they?"

"They will have to help to support me, won't they?"

And he had felt a trifle chilled. 

It was not a part of Marion's program to enter the Spencer familyunwelcomed. She had a furtive fear of Clayton Spencer, the fear of theindirect for the direct, of the designing woman for the essentiallysimple and open male. It was not on her cards to marry Graham and to tryto live on his salary. 

So for a few weeks the engagement was concealed even from Mrs. Hayden, and Graham, who had received some stock from his father onhis twenty-first birthday, secretly sold a few shares and bought theengagement ring. With that Marion breather easier. It was absoluteevidence. 

Her methods were the methods of her kind and her time. To allure a manby every wile she knew, and having won him to keep him uncertain anduneasy, was her perfectly simple creed. So she reduced love to itscheapest terms, passion and jealousy, played on them both, and madeGraham alternately happy and wretched. 

Once he found Rodney Page there, lounging about with the manner of ahabitue. It seemed to Graham that he was always stumbling over Rodneythose days, either at home, with drawings and color sketches spread outbefore him, or at the Hayden house. 

"What's he hanging around here for?" he demanded when Rodney, havingbent over Marion's hand and kissed it, had gone away. "If he could seethat bare spot on the top of his head he'd stop all that kow-towing. "

"You're being rather vulgar, aren't you?" Marion had said. "He's a veryold friend and a very dear one. "

"Probably in love with you once, like all the rest?"

He had expected denial from her, but she had held her cigaret up in theair, and reflectively regarded its small gilt tip. 

"I'm afraid he's rather unhappy. Poor Rod!"

"About me?"

"About me. "

"Look here, Toots, " he burst out. "I'm playing square with you. I nevergo anywhere but here. I--I'm perfectly straight with you. But every timehere I find some of your old guard hanging round. It makes me wild. "

"They've always come here, and as long as our engagement isn't known, Ican't very well stop them. "

"Then let me go to father. "

"He'll turn you out, you know. I know men, dear old thing, and father isgoing to raise a merry little hell about us. He's the sort who wantsto choose his son's wife for him. He'd like to play Providence. " Shewatched him, smiling, but with slightly narrowed eyes. "I rather thinkhe has somebody in mind for you now. "

"I don't believe it. "

"Of course you don't. But he has. "

"Who?"

"Delight. She's exactly the sort he thinks you'll need. He still thinksyou are a little boy, Graham, so he picks out a nice little girl foryou. Such a nice little girl. "

The amused contempt in her voice made him angry--for Delight ratherthan himself. He was extremely grown-up and dignified the rest of theafternoon; he stood very tall and straight, and spoke in his deepestvoice. 

It became rather an obsession in him to prove his manhood, and addedto that was the effect of Marion's constant, insidious appeal to thesurging blood of his youth. And, day after day, he was shut in hisoffice with Anna Klein. 

He thought he was madly in love with Marion. He knew that he was notat all in love with Anna Klein. But she helped to relieve the officetedium. 

He was often aware, sitting at his desk, with Anna before him, notebookin hand, that while he read his letters her eyes were on him. Morethan once he met them, and there was something in them that healed hiswounded vanity. He was a man to her. He was indeed almost a god, butthat he did not know. In his present frame of mind, he would haveaccepted even that, however. 

Then, one day he kissed her. She was standing very close, and theimpulse was quick and irresistible. She made no effort to leave hisarms, and he kissed her again. 

"Like me a little, do you?" he had asked, smiling into her eyes. 

"Oh, I do, I do!" she had replied, hoarsely. 

It was almost an exact reversal of his relationship with Marion. Therethe huskiness was his, the triumphant smile was Marion's. And thefeeling of being adored without stint or reservation warmed him. 

He released her then, but their relationship had taken on a new phase. He would stand against the outer door, to prevent its sudden opening. And she would walk toward him, frightened and helpless until his armsclosed about her. It was entirely a game to him. There were days, whenMarion was trying, or the work of his department was nagging him, whenhe scarcely noticed her at all. But again the mischief in him, theidler, the newly awakened hunting male, took him to her with armsoutheld and the look of triumph in his eyes that she mistook for love. 

On one such occasion Joey came near to surprising a situation, so nearthat his sophisticated young mind guessed rather more than the truth. Hewent out, whistling. 

He waited until Graham had joined the office force in the milllunchroom, and invented an errand back to Graham's office. Anna wasthere, powdering her nose with the aid of a mirror fastened inside herpurse. 

Joey had adopted Clayton with a sort of fierce passion, hidden behind apose of patronage. 

"He's all right, " he would say to the boys gathered at noon in the millyard. "He's kinda short-tempered sometimes, but me, I understand him. And there ain't many of these here money kings that would sit up in ahospital the way he did with me. "

The mill yard had had quite enough of that night in the hospital. Itwould fall on him in one of those half-playful, half-vicious attacksthat are the humor of the street, and sometimes it was rather a batteredJoey who returned to Clayton's handsome office, to assist him in runningthe mill. 

But it was a very cool and slightly scornful Joey who confronted Annathat noon hour. He lost no time in preliminaries. 

"What do you think you're doing, anyhow?" he demanded. 

"Powdering my nose, if you insist on knowing. "

They spoke the same language. Anna knew what was coming, and was onguard instantly. 

"You cut it out, that's all. "

"You cut out of this office. And that's all. "

Joey sat down on Graham's desk and folded his arms. 

"What are you going to get out of it, anyhow?" he said with a shift frombullying to argument. 

"Out of what?"

"You know, all right. "

She whirled on him. 

"Now see here, Joey, " she said. "You run out and play. I'll not have anylittle boys meddling in my affairs. "

Joey slid off the desk and surveyed her with an impish smile. "Youraffairs!" he repeated. "What the hell do I care about your affairs? I'mthinking of the boss. It's up to him if he wants to keep German spies onthe place. But it's up to some of us here to keep our eyes open, so thatthey don't do any harm. "

Sheer outrage made Anna's face pale. She had known for some time thatthe other girls kept away from her, and she had accepted it with thestolidity of her blood. She had no German sympathies; her sympathies inthe war lay nowhere. 

But--she a spy!

"You get out of here, " she said furiously, "or I'll go to Mr. Spencerand complain about you. I'm no more a spy than you are. Not asmuch!--the way you come sneaking around listening and watching! Now youget out. "

And Joey had gone, slowly to show that the going was of his own freewill, and whistling. He went out and closed the door. Then he opened itand stuck his head in. 

"You be good, " he volunteered, "and when the little old U. S. Gets tomixing up with the swine over there, I'll bring you a nice fat Hun as apresent. "

CHAPTER XII

Two days before Christmas Delight came out. There was an afternoonreception at the rectory, and the plain old house blossomed with thedebutante's bouquets and baskets of flowers. 

For weeks before the house had been getting ready. The rector, looking about for his accustomed chair, had been told it was at theupholsterer's, or had found his beloved and ragged old books relegatedto dark corners of the bookcases. There were always stepladders on thelandings, and paper-hangers waiting until a man got out of bed in themorning. And once he put his ecclesiastical heel in a pail of varnish, and slid down an entire staircase, to the great imperilment of hiskindly old soul. 

But he had consented without demur to the coming-out party, and he hadtaken, during all the morning of the great day, a most mundane interestin the boxes of flowers that came in every few minutes. He stood insidea window, under pretense of having no place to sit down, and called outregularly, "Six more coming, mother! And a boy with three ringing across thestreet. I think he's made a mistake. Yes, he has. He's coming over!"

When all the stands and tables were overflowing, the bouquets were hungto the curtains in the windows. And Delight, taking a last survey, fromthe doorway, expressed her satisfaction. 

"It's heavenly, " she said. "Imagine all those flowers for me. Itlooks"--she squinted up her eyes critically--"it looks precisely like ahighly successful funeral. "

But a part of her satisfaction was pure pose, for the benefit ofthat kindly pair who loved her so. Alone in her room, dressed to godown-stairs, Delight drew a long breath and picked up her flowers whichClayton Spencer had sent. It had been his kindly custom for years tosend to each little debutante, as she made her bow, a great armful ofwhite lilacs and trailing tiny white rosebuds. 

"Fifty dollars, probably, " Delight reflected. "And the Belgians needingflannels. It's dreadful. "

Her resentment against Graham was dying. After all, he was only achild in Toots Hayden's hands. And she made one of those curious"He-loves-me-he-loves-me-not" arrangements in her own mind. If Grahamcame that afternoon, she would take it as a sign that there was stillsome good in him, and she would try to save him from himself. She hadbeen rather nasty to him. If he did not come--

A great many came, mostly women, with a sprinkling of men. The rector, who loved people, was in his element. He was proud of Delight, proudof his home; he had never ceased being proud of his wife. He knew whoexactly had sent each basket of flowers, each hanging bunch. "Yourexquisite orchids, " he would say; or, "that perfectly charming basket. It is there, just beside Mrs. Haverford. "

But when Natalie Spencer came in alone, splendid in Russian sables, hehappened to be looking at Delight, and he saw the light die out of hereyes. 

Natalie had tried to bring Graham with her. She had gone into his roomthat morning while he was dressing and asked him. To tell the truth, shewas uneasy about Marion Hayden and his growing intimacy there. 

"You will, won't you, Graham, dear?"

"Sorry, mother. I just can't. I'm taking a girl out. "

"I suppose it's Marion. "

Her tone caused him to turn and look at her. 

"Yes, it's Marion. What's wrong with that?"

"It's so silly, Graham. She's older than you are. And she's not reallynice, Graham. I don't mean anything horrid, but she's designing. Sheknows you are young and--well, she's just playing with you. I knowgirls, Graham. I--"

She stopped, before his angry gaze. 

"She is nice enough for you to ask here, " he said hastily. 

"She wants your money. That's all. "

He had laughed then, an ugly laugh. 

"There's a lot of it for her to want. "

And Natalie had gone away to shed tears of fury and resentment in herown room. 

She was really frightened. Bills for flowers sent to Marion were comingin, to lie unpaid on Graham's writing table. She had over-drawn onceagain to pay them, and other bills, for theater tickets, checks signedat restaurants, over-due club accounts. 

So she went to the Haverfords alone, and managed very effectually tosnub Mrs. Hayden before the rector's very eyes. 

Mrs. Hayden thereupon followed an impulse. 

"If it were not for Natalie Spencer, " she said, following that lady'ssables with malevolent eyes, "I should be very happy in something I wantto tell you. Can we find a corner somewhere?"

And Doctor Haverford had followed her uneasily, behind some palms. Shewas a thin little woman with a maddening habit of drawing her tight veildown even closer by a contortion of her lower jaw, so that the rectorfound himself watching her chin rather than her eyes. 

"I want you to know right away, as Marion's clergyman, and ours, " shehad said, and had given her jaw a particularly vicious wag and twist. "Of course it is not announced--I don't believe even the Spencers knowit yet. I am only telling you now because I know how dearly"--she didit again--"how dearly interested you are in all your spiritual children. Marion is engaged to Graham Spencer. "

The rector had not been a shining light for years without learning howto control his expression. He had a second, too, while she contorted herface again, to recover himself. 

"Thank you, " he said gravely. "I much appreciate your telling me. "

Mrs. Hayden had lowered her voice still more. The revelation took on theappearance of conspiracy. 

"In the early spring, probably, " she said, "we shall need your services, and your blessing. "

So that was the end of one dream. He had dreamed so many--in his youth, of spiritualizing his worldly flock; in middle life, of a bishopric; hehad dreamed of sons, to carry on the name he had meant to make famous. But the failures of those dreams had been at once his own failure andhis own disappointment. This was different. 

He was profoundly depressed. He wandered out of the crowd and, aftercolliding with a man from the caterer's in a dark rear hall, found hisway up the servant's staircase to the small back room where he keptthe lares and penates of his quiet life, his pipe, his fishing rods, ashabby old smoking coat, and back files of magazines which he intendedsome day to read, when he got round to it. 

The little room was jammed with old furniture, stripped from the lowerfloor to make room for the crowd. He had to get down on his knees andcrawl under a table to reach his pipe. But he achieved it finally, stillwith an air of abstraction, and lighted it. Then, as there was no placeto sit down, he stood in the center of the little room and thought. 

He did not go down again. He heard the noise of the arriving anddeparting motors subside, its replacement by the sound of clatteringchina, being washed below in the pantry. He went down finally, tobe served with a meal largely supplemented by the left-overs of theafternoon refreshments, ornate salads, fancy ices, and an overwhelmingtable decoration that shut him off from his wife and Delight, and lefthim in magnificent solitude behind a pyramid of flowers. 

Bits of the afternoon's gossip reached him; the comments on Delight'sdress and her flowers; the reasons certain people had not come. Butnothing of the subject nearest his heart. At the end of the meal Delightgot up. 

"I'm going to call up Mr. Spencer, " she said. "He has about fiftydollars' worth of thanks coming to him. "

"I didn't see Graham, " said Mrs. Haverford. "Was he here?"

Delight stood poised for flight. 

"He couldn't come because he had enough to do being two places at once. His mother said he was working, and Mrs. Hayden said he had taken Marionto the Country Club. I don't know why they take the trouble to lie tome. "

CHAPTER XIII

Christmas day of the year of our Lord, 1916, dawned on a world whichseemed to have forgotten the Man of Peace. In Asia Minor the Alliescelebrated it by the capture of a strong Turkish position at Maghdadah. The Germans spent it concentrating at Dead Man's Hill; the British wereejected from enemy positions near Arras. There was no Christmas truce. The death-grip had come. 

Germany, conscious of her superiority in men, and her hypocritical peaceoffers unanimously rejected, was preparing to free herself from the lastrestraint of civilization and to begin unrestricted submarine warfare. 

On Christmas morning Clayton received a letter from Chris. Evidently ithad come by hand, for it was mailed in America. 

"Dear Clay: I am not at all sure that you will care to hear from me. Infact, I have tried two or three times to write to you, and have givenit up. But I am lonelier than Billy-be-damned, and if it were not forAudrey's letters I wouldn't care which shell got me and my little cart. 

"I don't know whether you know why I got out, or not. Perhaps you don't. I'd been a fool and a scoundrel, and I've had time, between fusses, toknow just how rotten I've been. But I'm not going to whine to you. WhatI am trying to get over is that I'm through with the old stuff for good. 

"God only knows why I am writing to you, anyhow--unless it is becauseI've always thought you were pretty near right. And I'd like to feelthat now and then you are seeing Audrey, and bucking her up a bit. Ithink she's rather down. 

"Do you know, Clay, I think this is a darned critical time. The press, hasn't got it yet, but both the British and the French are hard upagainst it. They'll fight until there is no one left to fight, butthese damned Germans seem to have no breaking-point. They haven't anytemperament, I daresay, or maybe it is soul they lack. But they'll fightto the last man also, and the plain truth is that there are too many ofthem. 

"It looks mighty bad, unless we come in. And I don't mind saying thatthere are a good many eyes over here straining across the old Atlantic. Are we doing anything, I wonder? Getting ready? The officers here say wecan't expand an army to get enough men without a draft law. Can you seethe administration endangering the next election with a draft law? Noton your life. 

"I'm on the wagon, Clay. Honestly, it's funny. I don't mind telling youI'm darned miserable sometimes. But then I get busy, and I'm so bloomingglad in a rush to get water that doesn't smell to heaven that I don'twant anything else. 

"I suppose they'll give us a good hate on Christmas. Well, think of mesometimes when you sit down to dinner, and you might drink to our comingin. If we have a principle to divide among us we shall have to. "

Clayton read the letter twice. 

He and Natalie lunched alone, Natalie in radiant good humor. His giftto her had been a high collar of small diamonds magnificently set, and Natalie, whose throat commenced to worry her, had welcomed itrapturously. Also, he had that morning notified Graham that his salaryhad been raised to five thousand dollars. 

Graham had shown relief rather than pleasure. 

"I daresay I won't earn it, Father, " he had said. "But I'll at east tryto keep out of debt on it. "

"If you can't, better let me be your banker, Graham. "

The boy had flushed. Then he had disappeared, as usual, and Clayton andNatalie sat across from each other, in their high-armed lion chairs, and made a pretense of Christmas gayety. True to Natalie's sense of thefitness of things, a small Nuremberg Christmas tree, hung with tiny toysand lighted with small candles, stood in the center of the table. 

"We are dining out, " she explained. "So I thought we'd use it now. "

"It's very pretty, " Clayton acknowledged. And he wondered if Nataliefelt at all as he did, the vast room and the two men serving, withGraham no one knew where, and that travesty of Christmas joy betweenthem. His mind wandered to long ago Christmases. 

"It's not so very long since we had a real tree, " he observed. "Do youremember the one that fell and smashed all the things on it? And howGraham heard it and came down?"

"Horribly messy things, " said Natalie, and watched the second mancritically. He was new, and she decided he was awkward. 

She chattered through the meal, however, with that light gayety of herswhich was not gayety at all, and always of the country house. 

"The dining-room floor is to be oak, with a marble border, " she said. "You remember the ones we saw in Italy? And the ceiling is blue andgold. You'll love the ceiling, Clay. "

There was claret with the luncheon, and Clayton, raising his glass, thought of Chris and the water that smelled to heaven. 

Natalie's mind was on loggias by that time. 

"An upstairs loggia, too, " she said. "Bordered with red geraniums. Iloathe geraniums, but the color is good. Rodney wants Japanese screensand things, but I'm not sure. What do you think?"

"I think you're a better judge than I am, " he replied, smiling. He hadhad to come back a long way, but he made the effort. 

"It's hardly worth while struggling to have things attractive for you, "she observed petulantly. "You never notice, anyhow. Clay, do you knowthat you sit hours and hours, and never talk to me?"

"No! Do I? I'm sorry. "

"You're a perfectly dreary person to have around. "

"I'll talk to you, my dear. But I'm not much good at houses. Give mesomething I understand. "

"The mill, I suppose! Or the war!"

"Do I really talk of the war?"

"When you talk at all. What in the world do you think about, Clay, whenyou sit with your eyes on nothing? It's a vicious habit. "

"Oh, ships and sails and sealing wax and cabbages and kings, " he said, lightly. 

That afternoon Natalie slept, and the house took on the tomb-like quietof an establishment where the first word in service is silence. Claywandered about, feeling an inexpressible loneliness of spirit. On thosedays which work did not fill he was always discontented. He thoughtof the club, but the vision of those disconsolate groups of homelessbachelors who gathered there on all festivals that centered about afamily focus was unattractive. 

All at once, he realized that, since he had wakened that morning, hehad been wanting to see Audrey. He wanted to talk to her, real talk, notgossip. Not country houses. Not personalities. Not recrimination. Suchtalk as Audrey herself had always led at dinner parties: of men andaffairs, of big issues, of the war. 

He felt suddenly that he must talk about the war to some one. 

Natalie was still sleeping when he went down-stairs. It had beenraining, but a cold wind was covering the pavement with a glaze of ice. Here and there men in top hats, like himself, were making their way toChristmas calls. Children clinging to the arms of governesses, theirfeet in high arctics, slid laughing on the ice. A belated florist'swagon was still delivering Christmas plants tied with bright red bows. The street held more of festivity to Clayton than had his house. Even the shop windows, as he walked toward Audrey's unfashionable newneighborhood, cried out their message of peace. Peace--when there was nopeace. 

Audrey was alone, but her little room was crowded with gifts andflowers. 

"I was hoping you would come, Clay, " she said. "I've had some visitors, but they're gone. I'll tell them down-stairs that I'm not at home, andwe can really talk. "

"That's what I came for. "

And when she had telephoned; "I've had a letter from Chris, Audrey. "

She read it slowly, and he was surprised, when she finally looked up, tofind tears in her eyes. 

"Poor old Chris!" she said. "I've never told you the story, have I, Clay? Of course I know perfectly well I haven't. There was anotherwoman. I think I could have understood it, perhaps, if she had been adifferent sort of a woman. But--I suppose it hurt my pride. I didn'tlove him. She was such a vulgar little thing. Not even pretty. Just--woman. "

He nodded. 

"He was fastidious, too. I don't understand it. And he swears he nevercared for her. I don't believe he did, either. I suppose there's noexplanation for these things. They just happen. It's the life we live, Idare say. When I look back--She's the girl I sent into the mill. "

He was distinctly shocked. 

"But, Audrey, " he protested, "you are not seeing her, are you?"

"Now and then. She has fastened herself on me, in a way. Don't scowllike that. She says she is straight now and that she only wants a chanceto work. She's off the stage for good. She--danced. That money I gotfrom you was for her. She was waiting, up-stairs. Chris was behind withher rent, and she was going to lose her furniture. "

"That you should have to do such a thing!" he protested. "It's--well, it's infamous. "

But she only smiled. 

"Well, I've never been particularly shielded. It hasn't hurt me. I don'teven hate her. But I'm puzzled sometimes. Where there's love it might beunderstandable. Most of us would hate to have to stand the test of reallove, I daresay. There's a time in every one's life, I suppose, whenlove seems to be the only thing that matters. "

That was what the poet in that idiotic book had said: "There is no otherjoy. "

"Even you, Clay, " she reflected, smilingly. "You big, grave men go allto pieces, sometimes. "

"I never have, " he retorted. 

She returned Chris's letter to him. 

"There, " she said. "I've had my little whimper, and I feel better. Nowtalk to me. "

The little clock was striking six when at last he rose to go. The roomwas dark, with only the glow of the wood fire on Audrey's face. He foundher very lovely, rather chastened and subdued, but much more appealingthan in her old days of sparkle and high spirits. 

"You are looking very sweet, Audrey. "

"Am I? How nice of you!"

She got up and stood on the hearth-rug beside him, looking up at him. Then, "Don't be startled, Clay, " she announced, smilingly. "I am goingto kiss you--for Christmas. "

And kiss him she did, putting both hands on his shoulders, and rising onher toes to do it. It was a very small kiss, and Clayton took it calmly, and as she intended him to take it. But it was, at that, rather aflushed Audrey who bade him good-night and God bless you. 

Clayton took away with him from that visit a great peace and a greatrelief. He had talked out to her for more than an hour of the manythings that puzzled and bewildered him. He had talked war, and the mill, and even Graham and his problems. And by talking of them some of themhad clarified. A little of his unrest had gone. He felt encouraged, hehad a new strength to go on. It was wonderful, he reflected, what thefriendship of a woman could mean to a man. He was quite convinced thatit was only friendship. 

He turned toward home reluctantly. Behind him was the glow of Audrey'sfire, and the glow that had been in her eyes when he entered. If a manhad such a woman behind him. .. 

He went into his great, silent house, and the door closed behind himlike a prison gate. 

For a long time after he had gone, Audrey, doors closed to visitors, satalone by her fire, with one of his roses held close to her cheek. 

In her small upper room, in a white frame cottage on the hilloverlooking the Spencer furnaces, Anna Klein, locked away from pryingeyes, sat that same Christmas evening and closely inspected a tiny goldwrist-watch. And now and then, like Audrey, she pressed it to her face. 

Not the gift, but the giver. 

CHAPTER XIV

Having turned Dunbar and his protective league over to Hutchinson, thegeneral manager, Clayton had put him out of his mind. But during theweek after Christmas he reached the office early one morning to findthat keen and rather shabby gentleman already there, waiting. 

Not precisely waiting, for he was standing by one of the windows, wellback from it, and inspecting the mill yard with sharp, darting glances. 

"Hello, Dunbar, " said Clayton, and proceeded to shed his fur-linedcoat. Dunbar turned and surveyed him with the grudging admiration of theundersized man for the tall one. 

"Cold morning, " he said, coming forward. "Not that I suppose you knowit. " He glanced at the coat. 

"I thought Hutchinson said that you'd gone away. "

"Been to Washington. I brought something back that will interest you. "

From inside his coat he produced a small leather case, and took from ita number of photographs. 

"I rather gathered, Mr. Spencer, " he said dryly, "when I was here lastthat you thought me an alarmist. I don't know that I blame you. Wealways think the other fellow may get it, but that we are safe. Youmight glance at those photographs. "

He spread them out on the desk. Beyond the windows the mill roaredon; men shouted, the locomotive whistled, a long file of laborerswith wheelbarrows went by. And from a new building going up came thehammering of the riveting-machines, so like the rapid explosions ofmachine guns. 

"Interesting, aren't they?" queried Dunbar. "This is a clock-bomb witha strap for carrying it under a coat. That's a lump of coal--only itisn't. It's got enough explosive inside to blow up a battleship. It's meant for that, primarily. That's fire-confetti--damnablestuff--understand it's what burned up most of Belgium. And that's afountain-pen. What do you think of that? Use one yourself, don't you?Don't leave it lying around. That's all. "

"What on earth can they do with a fountain-pen?"

"One of their best little tricks, " said Mr. Dunbar, with a note ofgrudging admiration in his voice. "Here's a cut of the mechanism. Yousit down, dip your pen, and commence to write. There's the striking pin, or whatever they call it. It hits here, and--good night!"

"Do you mean to say they're using things like that here?"

"I mean to say they're planning to, if they haven't already. That coalnow, you'd see that go into your furnaces, or under your boilers, orwherever you use it, and wouldn't worry, would you?"

"Are these actual photographs?"

"Made from articles taken from a German officer's trunk, in a neutralcountry. He was on his way somewhere, I imagine. "

Clayton sat silent. Then he took out his fountain-pen and surveyed itwith a smile. 

"Rather off fountain-pens for a time, I take it!" observed Dunbar. "Well, I've something else for you. You've got one of the best littleI. W. W. Workers in the country right here in your mill. Some of themaren't so bad--hot air and nothing else. But this fellow's a fanatic. Which is the same as saying he's crazy. "

"Who is he?"

"Name's Rudolph Klein. He's a sort of relation to the chap that got out. Old man's been sore on him, but I understand he's hanging around theKlein place again. "

Clayton considered. 

"I don't remember him. Of course, I can't keep track of the men. We'llget rid of him. "

Mr. Dunbar eyed him. 

"That's the best thing you can think of?"

"I don't want him round, do I?"

"Nine of you men out of ten say that. You'd turn him loose and so warnhim. Not only that, but he'll be off on his devil's work somewhere. Perhaps here. Perhaps elsewhere. And we want him where we can find him. See here, Mr. Spencer, d'you ever hear of counter-espionage?"

Clayton never had, but the term explained itself. 

"Set a spy to watch a spy, " said Dunbar. "Let him think he's going onfine. Find his confederates. Let them get ready to spring something. Andthen--get them. Remember, " he added with sarcasm, "we're still neutral. You can't lock a man up because he goes around yelling 'Down withcapital!' The whole country is ready to yell it with him. And, even ifyou find him with a bomb under his coat, labeled 'made in Germany, ' it'shard to link Germans up with the thing. He can say that he always buyshis bombs in Germany. That they make the best bombs in the world. Thathe likes the way they pack 'em, and their polite trade methods. "

Clayton listened, thinking hard. 

"We have a daughter of Klein's here. She is my son's secretary. "

Dunbar glanced at him quickly, but his eyes were on the window. 

"I know that. "

"Think I should get rid of her?"

Dunbar hesitated. He liked Clayton Spencer, and it was his business justthen to know something about the Kleins. It would be a good thing forClayton Spencer's boy if they got rid of the girl. 

On the other hand, to keep her there and watch her was certainly abigger thing. If she stayed there might be trouble, but it would concernthe boy only. If she left, and if she was one link in the chain tosnare Rudolph, there might be a disaster costing many lives. He made hisdecision quickly. 

"Keep her, by all means, " he said. "And don't tell Mr. Graham anything. He's young, and he'd be likely to show something. I suppose she getsconsiderable data where she is?"

"Only of the one department. But that's a fair indication of the rest. "

Dunbar rose. 

"I'm inclined to think there's nothing to that end of it, " he said. "Theold chap is sulky, but he's not dangerous. It's Rudolph I'm afraid of. "

At the luncheon hour that day Clayton, having finished his mail, went toGraham's office. He seldom did that, but he was uneasy. He wanted to seethe girl. He wanted to look her over with this new idea in his mind. She had been a quiet little thing, he remembered; thorough, but notbrilliant. He had sent her to Graham from his own office. He dislikedeven the idea of suspecting her; his natural chivalry revolted fromsuspecting any woman. 

Joey, who customarily ate his luncheon on Clayton's desk in his absence, followed by one of Clayton's cigarets, watched him across the yard, andwhistled as he saw him enter Graham's small building. 

"Well, what do you think of that?" he reflected. "I hope he coughsbefore he goes in. "

But Clayton did not happen to cough. Graham's office was empty, butthere was a sound of voices from Anna Klein's small room beyond. Hecrossed to the door and opened it, to stand astonished, his hand on thedoor-knob. 

Anna Klein was seated at her desk, with her luncheon spread before heron a newspaper, and seated on the desk, a sandwich in one hand, theother resting on Anna's shoulder, was Graham. He was laughing whenClayton opened the door, but the smile froze on his face. He slid offher desk. 

"Want me, father?"

"Yes, " said Clayton, curtly. And went out, leaving the door open. A sortof stricken silence followed his exit, then Graham put down the sandwichand went out, closing the door behind him. He stood just inside it inthe outer room, rather pale, but looking his father in the eyes. 

"Sorry, father, " he said. "I didn't hear you. I--"

"What has that to do with it?"

The boy was silent. To Clayton he looked furtive, guilty. His veryexpression condemned him far more than the incident itself. And Clayton, along with his anger, was puzzled as to his best course. Dunbar hadsaid to leave the girl where she was. But--was it feasible under thesecircumstances? He was rather irritated than angry. He considered aflirtation with one's stenographer rotten bad taste, at any time. Thebusiness world, to his mind, was divided into two kinds of men, thosewho did that sort of thing, and those who did not. It was a code, ratherthan a creed, that the boy had violated. 

Besides, he had bad a surprise. The girl who sat laughing into Graham'sface was not the Anna Klein he remembered, a shy, drab little thing, badly dressed, rather sallow and unsmiling. Here was a young womanundeniably attractive; slightly rouged, trim in her white blouse, andwith an air of piquancy that was added, had he known it, by the largeimitation pearl earrings she wore. 

"Get your hat and go to lunch, Graham, " he said. "And you might try toremember that a slightly different standard of conduct is expected frommy son, here, than may be the standard of some of the other men. "

"It doesn't mean anything, that sort of fooling. "

"You and I may know that. The girl may not. "

Then he went out, and Graham returned unhappily to the inner room. Anna was not crying; she was too frightened to cry. She had sat withoutmoving, her hand still clutching her untouched sandwich. Graham lookedat her and tried to smile. 

"I'm gone, I suppose?"

"Don't you worry about that, " he said, with boyish bravado. "Don't youworry about that, little girl. "

"Father will kill me, " she whispered. "He's queer these days, and if Igo home and have to tell him--" She shuddered. 

"I'll see you get something else, if the worst comes, you know. "

She glanced up at him with that look of dog-like fidelity that alwaystouched him. 

"I'll find you something good, " he promised. 

"Something good, " she repeated, with sudden bitterness. "And you'll getanother girl here, and flirt with her, and make her crazy about you, and--"

"Honestly, do you like me like that?"

"I'm just mad about you, " she said miserably. 

Frightened though he was, her wretchedness appealed to him. The thoughtthat she cared for him, too, was a salve to his outraged pride. Amoment ago, in the other room, he had felt like a bad small boy. Aswith Marion, Anna made him feel every inch a man. But she gave him whatMarion did not, the feeling of her complete surrender. Marion wouldtake; this girl would give. 

He bent down and put his arms around her. 

"Poor little girl!" he said. "Poor little girl!"

CHAPTER XV

The gay and fashionable crowd of which Audrey had been the center playedmadly that winter. The short six weeks of the season were already closeto an end. By mid-January the south and California would have claimedmost of the women and some of the men. There were a few, of course, who saw the inevitable catastrophe: the Mackenzies had laid up theirhouse-boat on the west coast of Florida. Denis Nolan had let his littleplace at Pinehurst. The advance wave of the war tide, the increased costof living, had sobered and made thoughtful the middle class, but abovein the great businesses, and below among the laboring people, money wasplentiful and extravagance ran riot. 

And Audrey Valentine's world missed her. It refused to accept herpoverty as an excuse, and clamored for her. It wanted her to sitagain at a piano, somewhere, anywhere, with a lighted cigaret on themusic-rack, and sing her husky, naive little songs. It wanted her coolaudacity. It wanted her for week-end parties and bridge, and to canteron frosty mornings on its best horses and make slaves of the parkpolicemen, so that she might jump forbidden fences. It wanted to seeher oust its grinning chauffeurs, and drive its best cars at their bestspeed. 

Audrey Valentine leading a cloistered life! Impossible! Selfish!

And Audrey was not cut out for solitude. She did not mind poverty. Shefound it rather a relief to acknowledge what had always been the fact. But she did mind loneliness. And her idea of making herself over intosomething useful was not working out particularly well. She spent twohours a day, at a down-town school, struggling with shorthand, and herwriting-table was always littered with papers covered with queer hooksand curves, or with typed sheets beginning:

 "Messrs Smith and Co. , : Dear Sirs. "

Clayton Spencer met her late in December, walking feverishly along witha book under her arm, and a half-desperate look in her eyes. He felt alittle thrill when he saw her, which should have warned him but did not. 

She did not even greet him. She stopped and held out her book to him. 

"Take it!" she said. "I've thrown it away twice, and two wretched menhave run after me and brought it back. "

He took it and glanced at it. 

"Spelling! Can't you spell?"

"Certainly I can spell, " she said with dignity. "I'm a very goodspeller. Clay, there isn't an 'i' in business, is there?"

"It is generally considered necessary to have two pretty good eyes inbusiness. " But he saw then that she was really rather despairing. "Thereis, one 'i, '" he said. "It seems foolish, doesn't it? Audrey dear, whatare you trying to do? For heaven's sake, if it's money?"

"It isn't that. I have enough. Honestly, Clay, I just had some sort ofan idea that I'd been playing long enough. But I'm only good for play. That man this morning said as much, when we fussed about my spelling. Hesaid I'd better write a new dictionary. "

Clayton threw back his head and laughed, and after a moment she laughed, too. But as he went on his face was grave. Somebody ought to be lookingafter her. It was not for some time that he realized he carried theabsurd little spelling-book. He took it back to the office with him, andput it in the back of a drawer of his desk. Joey, coming in some timelater, found him, with the drawer open, and something in his hands whichhe hastily put away. Later on, Joey investigated that drawer, and foundthe little book. He inspected it with a mixture of surprise and scorn. 

"Spelling!" he muttered. "And a hundred dollar a month girl to spell forhim!"

It was Rodney Page who forced Audrey out of her seclusion. 

Rodney had had a prosperous year, and for some time his conscience hadbeen bothering him. For a good many years he had blithely acceptedthe invitations of his friends--dinners, balls, week-end and yachtingparties, paying his way with an occasional box of flowers. He decided, that last winter of peace, to turn host and, true to instinct, to do theunusual. 

It was Natalie who gave him the suggestion. 

"Why don't you turn your carriage-house into a studio, and give a studiowarming, Roddie? It would be fun fixing it up. And you might make itfancy dress. "

Before long, of course, he had accepted the idea as of his ownoriginating, and was hard at work. 

Rodney's house had been his father's. He still lived there, although thebusiness district had encroached closely. And for some time he had usedthe large stable and carriage-house at the rear as a place in which tostore the odd bits of furniture, old mirrors and odds and ends that hehad picked up here and there. Now and then, as to Natalie, he sold someof them, but he was a collector, not a merchant. In his way, he was anartist. 

In the upper floor he had built a skylight, and there, in odd hours, heworked out, in water-color, sketches of interiors, sometimes for houseshe was building, sometimes purely for the pleasure of the thing. 

The war had brought him enormous increase in his collection. Owners ofFrench chateaus, driven to poverty, were sending to America treasures ofall sorts of furniture, tapestries, carpets, old fountains, porcelains, even carved woodwork and ancient mantels, and Rodney, from the mixedmotives of business and pride, decided to exhibit them. 

The old brick floor of the stable he replaced with handmade tiles. Thebox-stalls were small display-rooms, hung with tapestries and lightedwith candles in old French sconces. The great carriage-room became arefectory, with Jacobean and old monastery chairs, and the vast loftoverhead, reached by a narrow staircase that clung to the wall, wasrailed on its exposed side, waxed as to floor, hung with lanterns, andbecame a ballroom. 

Natalie worked with him, spending much time and a prodigious amount ofenergy. There was springing up between them one of those curious anddangerous intimacies, of idleness on the woman's part, of admirationon the man's, which sometimes develop into a wholly spurious passion. Probably Rodney realized it; certainly Natalie did not. She liked hisadmiration; she dressed, each day, for Rodney's unfailing comment on herclothes. 

"Clay never notices what I wear, " she said, once, plaintively. 

So it was Rodney who brought Audrey Valentine out of her seclusion, and he did it by making her angry. He dropped in to see her betweenChristmas and New-years, and made a plea. 

"A stable-warming!" she said. "How interesting! And fancy dress! Are yougoing to have them come as grooms, or jockeys? If I were going I'd goas a circus-rider. I used to be able to stand up on a running horse. Ofcourse you're having horses. What's a stable without a horse?"

He saw she was laughing at him and was rather resentful. 

"I told you I have made it into a studio. "

But when he implored her to go, she was obdurate. 

"Do go away and let me alone, Rodney, " she said at last. "I loathefancy-dress parties. "

"It won't be a party without you. "

"Then don't have it. I've told you, over and over, I'm not going out. Itisn't decent this year, in my opinion. And, anyhow, I haven't any money, any clothes, any anything. A bad evening at bridge, and I shouldn't beable to pay my rent. "

"That's nonsense. Why do you let people say you are moping about Chris?You're not. "

"Of course not. "

She sat up. 

"What else are they saying?"

"Well, there's some talk, naturally. You can't be as popular as you havebeen, and then just drop out, without some gossip. It's not bad. "

"What sort of talk?"

He was very uncomfortable. 

"Well, of course, you have been pretty strong on the war stuff?"

"Oh, they think I sent him!"

"If only you wouldn't hide, Audrey. That's what has made the talk. It'snot Chris's going. "

"I'm not hiding. That's idiotic. I was bored to death, if you want thetruth. Look here, Rodney. You're not being honest. What do they sayabout Chris and myself?"

He was cornered. 

"Is it--about another woman?"

"Well, of course now and then--there are always such stories. And ofcourse Chris--"

"Yes, they knew Chris. " Her voice was scornful. "So they think I'mmoping and hiding because--How interesting!"

She sat back, with her old insolent smile. 

"Poor Chris!" she said. "The only man in the lot except Clay Spencer whois doing his bit for the war, and they--when is your party, Roddie?"

"New-year's Eve. "

"I'll come, " she said. And smiling again, dangerously, "I'll come, withbells on. "

CHAPTER XVI

There had been once, in Herman Klein the making of a good American. He had come to America, not at the call of freedom, but of peace andplenty. Nevertheless, he had possibilities. 

Taken in time he might have become a good American. But nothing was doneto stimulate in him a sentiment for his adopted land. He would, indeed, have been, for all his citizenship papers, a man without a country butfor one thing. 

The Fatherland had never let go. When he went to the Turnverein, it wasto hear the old tongue, to sing the old songs. Visiting Germans fromoverseas were constantly lecturing, holding before him the vision ofgreat Germany. He saw moving-pictures of Germany; he went to meetingswhich commenced with "Die Wacht am Rhine. " One Christmas he received ahandsome copy of a photograph of the Kaiser through the mail. He neverknew who sent it, but he had it framed in a gilt frame, and it hung overthe fireplace in the sitting-room. 

He had been adopted by America, but he had not adopted America, savehis own tiny bit of it. He took what the new country gave him with nofaintest sense that he owed anything in return beyond his small yearlytaxes. He was neither friendly nor inimical. 

His creed through the years had been simple: to owe no man money, evenfor a day; to spend less than he earned; to own his own home; to riseearly, work hard, and to live at peace with his neighbors. He hadlearned English and had sent Anna to the public school. He spoke Englishwith her, always. And on Sunday he put on his best clothes, and satin the German Lutheran church, dozing occasionally, but always rigidlyerect. 

With his first savings he had bought a home, a tiny two-roomed framecottage on a bill above the Spencer mill, with a bit of waste land thathe turned into a thrifty garden. Anna was born there, and her motherhad died there ten years later. But long enough before that he had addedfour rooms, and bought an adjoining lot. At that time the hill had beengreen; the way to the little white house had been along and up a windingpath, where in the spring the early wild flowers came out on sunnybanks, and the first buds of the neighborhood were on Klein's ownlilac-bushes. 

He had had a magnificent sense of independence those days, and offreedom. 

He voted religiously, and now and then in the evenings he had been themoderate member of a mild socialist group. Theoretically, he believedthat no man should amass a fortune by the labor of others. Actually hefelt himself well paid, a respected member of society, and a propertyowner. 

In the early morning, winter and summer, he emerged into the small sideporch of his cottage and there threw over himself a pail of cold waterfrom the well outside. Then he rubbed down, dressed in the open airbehind the old awning hung there, took a dozen deep breaths and a cup ofcoffee, and was off for work. The addition of a bathroom, with runninghot water, had made no change in his daily habits. 

He was very strict with Anna, and with the women who, one after another, kept house for him. 

"I'll have no men lounging around, " was his first instruction onengaging them. And to Anna his solicitude took the form almost ofespionage. The only young man he tolerated about the place was a distantrelative. Rudolph Klein. 

On Sunday evenings Rudolph came in to supper. But even Rudolph found ithard to get a word with the girl alone. 

"What's eating him, anyhow, " he demanded of Anna one Sunday evening, when by the accident of a neighbor calling old Herman to the gate, hehad the chance of a word. 

"He knows a lot about you fellows, " Anna had said. "And the more heknows the less he trusts you. I don't wonder. "

"He hasn't anything on me. "

But Anna had come to the limit of her patience with her father at last. 

"What's the matter with you?" she demanded angrily one night, whenHerman had sat with his pipe in his mouth, and had refused herpermission to go to the moving-pictures with another girl. "Do you thinkI'm going on forever like this, without a chance to play? I'm sick ofit. That's all. "

"You vill not run around with the girls on this hill. " He had conqueredall but the English "w. " He still pronounced it like a "v. "

"What's the matter with the girls on this hill?" And when he smoked onin imperturbable silence, she had flamed into a fury. 

"This is free America, " she reminded him. "It's not Germany. And I'vestood about all I can. I work all day, and I need a little fun. I'mgoing. "

And she had gone, rather shaky as to the knees, but with her head heldhigh, leaving him on the little veranda with his dead pipe in hismouth and his German-American newspaper held before his face. She hadreturned, still terrified, to find the house dark and the doors locked, and rather than confess to any one, she had spent the night in a chairout of doors. 

At dawn she had heard him at the side of the house, drawing water forhis bath. He had gone through his morning program as usual, by thesounds, and had started off for work without an inquiry about her. Onlywhen she heard the gate click had she hammered at the front door andbeen admitted by the untidy servant. 

"Fine way to treat me!" she had stormed, and for a part of that day shewas convinced that she would never go back home again. But fear of herfather was the strongest emotion she knew, and she went back that night, as usual. It not being Herman's way to bother with greetings, she hadpassed him on the porch without a word, and that night, winding a clockbefore closing the house, he spoke to her for the first time. 

"There is a performance at the Turnverein Hall to-morrow night. Rudolphvill take you. "

"I don't like Rudolph. "

"Rudolph viii take you, " he had repeated, stolidly. And she had gone. 

He had no conception of any failure in himself as a parent. He had theGerman idea of women. They had a distinct place in the world, but thatplace was not a high one. Their function was to bring children into theworld. They were breeding animals, and as such to be carefully watchedand not particularly trusted. They had no place in the affairs of men, outside the home. 

Not that he put it that way. In his way he probably loved the girl. Butnever once did he think of her as an intelligent and reasoning creature. He took her salary, gave her a small allowance for car-fare, and bankedthe rest of it in his own name. It would all be hers some day, so whatdifference did it make?

But the direst want would not have made him touch a penny of it. 

He disliked animals. But in a curious shame-faced fashion he likedflowers. Such portions of his garden as were useless for vegetables hehad planted out in flowers. But he never cut them and brought them intothe house, and he watched jealously that no one else should do so. Hekept poisoned meat around for such dogs in the neighborhood as wanderedin, and Anna had found him once callously watching the death agonies ofone of them. 

Such, at the time the Spencer mill began work on its new shell contract, was Herman Klein, sturdily honest, just according to his ideas ofjustice, callous rather than cruel, but the citizen of a world boundedby his memories of Germany, his life at the mill, and his home. 

But, for all that, he was not a man the German organization in Americaput much faith in. Rudolph, feeling his way, had had one or twoconversations with him early in the war that had made him reportadversely. 

"Let them stop all this fighting, " Herman had said. "What matter now whocommenced it? Let them all stop. It is the only way. "

"Sure, let them stop!" said Rudolph, easily. "Let them stop trying todestroy Germany. "

"That is nonsense, " Herman affirmed, sturdily. "Do you think I knownothing? I, who was in the Prussian Guard for five years. Think you Iknow nothing of the plan?"

The report of the German atrocities, however, found him franklyincredulous, and one noon hour, in the mill, having read the BelgianKing's statement that the German army in Belgium had protected itsadvance with women and children, Rudolph found him tearing the papers toshreds furiously. 

"Such lies!" he cried. "It is not possible that they should bebelieved. "

The sinking of the Lusitania, however, left him thoughtful anddepressed. In vain Rudolph argued with him. 

"They were warned, " he said. "If they chose to take the chance, is itGermany's fault? If you tell me not to put my hand on a certain piece ina machine and I do it anyhow, is it your fault if I lose a hand?"

Old Herman eyed him shrewdly. 

"And if Anna had been on the ship, you think the same, eh?"

Rudolph had colored. 

For some time now Rudolph had been in love with Anna. He had not hadmuch encouragement. She went out with him, since he was her only meansof escape, but she treated him rather cavalierly, criticized his clothesand speech, laughed openly at his occasional lapses into sentiment, andwas, once in a long time, so kind that she set his heart leaping. 

Until the return of Graham Spencer, all had gone fairly well. But withhis installment in the mill, Rudolph's relations with Anna had changed. She had grown prettier--Rudolph was not observant enough to mark whatmade the change, but he knew that he was madder about her than ever. Andshe had assumed toward him an attitude of almost scornful indifference. The effect on his undisciplined young mind was bad. He had no suspicionof Graham. He only knew his own desperate unhappiness. In the meetingsheld twice weekly in a hall on Third Street he was reckless, advocatingviolence constantly. The conservative element watched him uneasily; theothers kept an eye on him, for future use. 

The closing week of the old year found the situation strained in theKlein house. Herman had had plenty of opportunities for situations, but all of them had to do directly or indirectly with the making ofmunitions for the Allies. Old firms in other lines were not taking onnew men. It was the munition works that were increasing their personnel. And by that time the determination not to assist Germany's enemies hadbecome a fixed one. 

The day after Christmas, in pursuit of this idea, he commanded Annato leave the mill. But she had defied him, for the second time in her, life, her face pale to the lips. 

"Not on your life, " she had said. "You may want to starve. I don't. "

"There is plenty of other work. "

"Don't you kid yourself. And, anyhow, I'm not looking for it. I don'tmind working so you can sit here and nurse a grouch, but I certainlydon't intend to start hunting another job. "

She had eyed him morosely. "If you ask me, " she continued, "you're outof your mind. What's Germany to you? You forgot it as fast as youcould, until this war came along. You and Rudolph! You're long distancepatriots, you are. "

"I will not help my country's enemies, " he had said doggedly. 

"Your country s enemies. My word! Isn't this your country? What's theold Kaiser to you?"

He had ordered her out of the house, then, but she had laughed at him. She could always better him in an argument. 

"Suppose I do go?" she had inquired. "What are you going to live on? I'mnot crazy in the head, if you are. "

She rather thought he would strike her. He had done it before, with theidea of enforcing discipline. If he did, she would leave him. Let himshift for himself. He had taken her money for years, and he could liveon that. But he had only glared at her. 

"We would have done better to remain in Germany, " he said. "America hasno respect for parents. It has no discipline. It is a country withoutlaw. "

She felt a weakening in him, and followed up her advantage. 

"And another thing, while we're at it, " she flung at him. "Don't you goon trying to shove Rudolph down my throat. I'm off Rudolph for keeps. "

She flung out her arm, and old Herman saw the gleam of something gold onher wrist. He caught her hand in his iron grip and shoved up her sleeve. There was a tiny gold wrist-watch there, on a flexible chain. Hisamazement and rage gave her a moment to think, although she wasterrified. 

"Where did you get that?"

"The mill gave them to the stenographers for Christmas. "

"Why did you not tell me?"

"We're not talking much these days, are we?"

He let her go then, and that night, in the little room behind GustavShroeder's saloon, he put the question to Rudolph. Because he wasexcited and frightened he made slow work of his inquiry, and Rudolph hada moment to think. 

"Sure, " he replied. "All the girls in the executive offices got them. "

But when the meeting was over, Rudolph did not go back to hisboarding-house. He walked the streets and thought. 

He had saved Anna from her father. But he was of no mind to save herfrom himself. She would have to account to him for that watch. 

Anna herself lay awake until late. She saw already the difficultiesbefore her. Herman was suspicious. He might inquire. There were othergirls from the mill offices on the hill. And he might speak to Rudolph. 

The next evening she found Rudolph waiting for her outside the millgate. Together they started up what had been, when Herman bought thecottage, a green hill with a winding path. But the smoke and ore fromthe mill had long ago turned it to bareness, had killed the trees andshrubbery, and filled the little hollows where once the first arbutushad hidden with cinders and ore dust. The path had become a crookedstreet, lined with wooden houses, and paved with worn and broken bricks. 

Where once Herman Klein had carried his pail and whistled bits ofShubert as he climbed along, a long line of blackened men made theirevening way. Untidy children sat on the curb, dogs lay in the centerof the road, and women in all stages of dishabille hung over the highrailings of their porches and watched for their men. 

Under protest of giving her a lift up the hill, Rudolph slipped his handthrough Anna's left arm. 

Immediately she knew that the movement was a pretext. She could not freeherself. 

"Be good, now, " he cautioned her. "I've got you. I want to see thatwatch. "

"You let me alone. "

"I'm going to see that watch. "

With his free hand he felt under her sleeve and drew down the bracelet. 

"So the mill gave it to you, eh? That's a lie, and you know it. "

"I'll tell you, Rudolph, " she temporized. "Only don't tell father. Allthe girls have watches, and I wanted one. So I bought it. "

"That's a lie, too. "

"On the installment plan, " she insisted. "A dollar a week, that'sstraight. I've paid five on it already. "

He was almost convinced, not quite. He unfastened it awkwardly and tookit off her wrist. It was a plain little octagonal watch, and on the backwas a monogram. The monogram made him suspicious again. 

"It's only gold filled, Rudolph. "

"Pretty classy monogram for a cheap watch. " He held it close; on thedial was the jeweler's name, a famous one. He said nothing more, putit back on Anna's arm and released her. At the next corner he left her, with a civil enough good-bye, but with rage in his heart. 

CHAPTER XVII

The New-year, destined to be so crucial, came in cheerfully enough. There was, to be sure, a trifle less ostentation in the publiccelebrations, but the usual amount of champagne brought in the mostvital year in the history of the nation. The customary number of men, warmed by that champagne, made reckless love to the women who happenedto be near them and forgot it by morning. And the women themselvespresented pictures of splendor of a peculiar gorgeousness. 

The fact that almost coincident with the war there had come intoprominence an entirely new school of color formed one of the curiouscontrasts of the period. Into a drab world there flamed strange andbizarre theatrical effects, in scenery and costume. Some of it wasbeautiful, most of it merely fantastic. But it was immediately reflectedin the clothing of fashionable women. Europe, which had originated it, could use it but little; but great opulent America adopted it and madeit her own. 

So, while the rest of the world was gray, America flamed, and NatalieSpencer, spending her days between dressmakers and decorators, flamedwith the rest. 

On New-year's Eve Clayton Spencer always preceded the annual ball ofthe City Club, of which he was president, by a dinner to the boardof governors and their wives. It was his dinner. He, and not Natalie, arranged the seating, ordered the flowers, and planned the menu. He tookconsiderable pride in it; he liked to think that it was both beautifuland dignified. His father had been president before him, and he liked tothink that he was carrying on his father's custom with the punctiliousdignity that had so characterized him. 

He was dressed early. Natalie had been closeted with Madeleine, hermaid, and a hair-dresser, for hours. As he went down-stairs he couldhear 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'swish. Peace and happiness! Well, God knows he wanted both. A vaguecomprehension of the understanding the upper servants of a householdacquire as to the inner life of the family stirred in him; how much theyknew and concealed under their impassive service. 

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

"I hate dressing for a ball at this hour, " she said, ratherbreathlessly. "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. Everybodyis going on. "

In the car she chattered feverishly and he listened, lapsing into one ofthe 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. Theysimply 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 dress?"

"I am, indeed. "

He was rather startled. The annual dinner of the board of governors ofthe City Club and their wives was a most dignified function always. Hewas the youngest by far of the men; the women were all frankly dowagers. They represented the conservative element of the city's social life, that element which frowned on smartness and did not even recognize thebizarre. It was old-fashioned, secure in its position, influential, andslightly tedious. 

"There will be plenty in fancy dress. "

"Not at the dinner. "

"Stodgy old frumps!" was Natalie's comment. "I believe you would ratherbreak one of the ten commandments than one of the conventions, " sheadded. 

It was when he saw her coming down the staircase in the still emptyclubhouse that he realized the reason for her defiant attitude when sheacknowledged to fancy dress. For she wore a peacock costume of the mostdaring sort. Over an orange foundation, eccentric in itself and veryshort, was a vivid tunic covered with peacock feathers on gold tissue, with a sweeping tail behind, and on her head was the towering chest ofa peacock on a gold bandeau. She waved a great peacock fan, also, and half-way down the stairs she paused and looked down at him, withhalf-frightened eyes. 

"Do you like it?"

"It is very wonderful, " he said, gravely. 

He could not hurt her. Her pleasure in it was too naive. It dawned onhim then that Natalie was really a child, a spoiled and wilful child. And always afterward he tried to remember that, and to judge heraccordingly. 

She came down, the upturned wired points of the tunic trembling asshe stepped. When she came closer he saw that she was made up for thecostume ball also, her face frankly rouged, fine lines under her eyes, her lashes blackened. She looked very lovely and quite unfamiliar. Buthe had determined not to spoil her evening, and he continued gravelysmiling. 

"You'd better like it, Clay, " she said, and took a calculating advantageof what she considered a softened mood. "It cost a thousand dollars. "

She went on past him, toward the room where the florist was stillputting the finishing touches to the flowers on the table. When thefirst guests arrived, she came back and took her place near him, and hewas uncomfortably aware of the little start of surprise with which sheburst upon each new arrival, In the old and rather staid surroundings ofthe club she looked out of place--oriental, extravagant, absurd. 

And Clayton Spencer suffered. To draw him as he stood in the club thatlast year of our peace, 1916, is to draw him not only with his virtuesbut with his faults; his over emphasis on small things; his jealousy forhis 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 thewar, it seemed to him that Natalie, gorgeous and painted, representedthe very worst of the country he loved, indifference, extravagance, andostentatious 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. Abovethe band, already playing in the ballroom, Clayton could hear old TerryMackenzie paying Natalie extravagant, flagrant compliments. 

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

"Bugs, " said Natalie. 

"But--tell me, " Terry bent toward her, and Mrs. Terry kept fascinatedeyes 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 undoubtedlycarry you away, in the course of the evening, and go madly through theworld hunting a marble balustrade to set you on. I'll do it myself ifyou'll give me any encouragement. "

Perhaps, had Clayton Spencer been entirely honest with himself thatnight, he would have acknowledged that he had had a vague hope of seeingAudrey at the club. Cars came up, discharged their muffled occupantsunder the awning and drove away again. Delight and Mrs. Haverfordarrived and he danced with Delight, to her great anxiety lest she mightnot 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 thefavors for the midnight figure were gilt cornucopias filled with looseflowers. The lights went out for a moment on the hour, the twelvestrokes were rung on a triangle in the orchestra, and there was amoment's quiet. Then the light blazed again, flowers and confetti werethrown, and club servants in livery carried round trays of champagne. 

Clayton, standing glass in hand, surveyed the scene with a mixture ofsatisfaction and impatience. He found Terry Mackenzie at his elbow. 

"Great party, Clay, " he said. "Well, here's to 1917, and may it bringluck. "

"May it bring peace, " said Clayton, and raised his glass. 

Some time later going home in the car with Mrs. Mackenzie, quiet andslightly grim beside him, Terry spoke out of a thoughtful silence. 

"There's something wrong with Clay, " he said. "If ever a fellow had aright to be happy--he has a queer look. Have you noticed it?"

"Anybody married to Natalie Spencer would develop what you call a queerlook, " she replied, tartly. 

"Don't you think he is in love with her?"

"If you ask me, I think he has reached the point where he can't bear thesight of her. But he doesn't know it. "

"She's pretty. "

"So is a lamp-shade, " replied Mrs. Terry, acidly. "Or a kitten, or afancy ice-cream. But you wouldn't care to be married to them, wouldyou?"

It was almost dawn when Natalie came in. Clayton had not been asleep. He had got to thinking rather feverishly of the New-year. Without in anyway making a resolution, he had determined to make it a better yearthan the last; to be more gentle with Natalie, more understanding withGraham; to use his new prosperity wisely; to forget his own lack ofhappiness in making others happy. He was very vague about that. Thesearch of the ages the rector had called happiness, and one found it bygiving it. 

To his surprise, Natalie came into his bedroom, looking like some queeroriental bird, vivid and strangely unlike herself. 

"I saw your light. Heavens, what a party!"

"I'm glad you enjoyed it. I hope you didn't mind my not going on. "

"I wish you had. Clay, you'll never guess what happened. "

"Probably not. What?"

"Well, Audrey just made it, that's all. Funny! I wish you'd seen someof their faces. Of course she was disgraceful, but she took it off rightaway. But it was like her--no one else would have dared. "

His mouth felt dry. Audrey--disgraceful!

"It was in the stable, you know, I told you. And just at midnight thedoors opened and a big white horse leaped in with Audrey on his back. Nosaddle--nothing. She was dressed like a bare-back rider in the circus, short tulle skirts and tights. They nearly mobbed her with joy. " Sheyawned. "Well, I'm off to bed. "

He roused himself. 

"A happy New-year, my dear. "

"Thanks, " she said, and wandered out, her absurd feathered tail trailingbehind her. 

He lay back and closed his eyes. So Audrey had done that, Audrey, whohad been in his mind all those sleepless hours; for he knew now thatback of all his resolutions to do better had been the thought of her. 

He felt disappointed and bitter. The sad disillusion of the middleyears, still heroically clinging to faiths that one after anotherdestroyed themselves, was his. 

CHAPTER XVIII

Audrey was frightened. She did not care a penny's worth what her littleworld thought. Indeed, she knew that she had given it a new thrill andso had won its enthusiastic approval. She was afraid of what Claytonwould think. 

She was absurdly quiet and virtuous all the next day, gathered out herstockings and mended them; began a personal expenditure account for theNew-year, heading it carefully with "darning silk, 50 cents"; wrote along letter to Chris, and--listened for the telephone. If only he wouldcall her, so she could explain. Still, what could she explain? She haddone it. It was water over the dam--and it is no fault of Audrey's thatshe would probably have spelled it "damn. "

By noon she was fairly abject. She did not analyze her own anxiety, orwhy the recollection of her escapade, which would a short time beforehave filled her with a sort of unholy joy, now turned her sick andtrembling. 

Then, in the middle of the afternoon, Clay called her up. She gasped alittle when she heard his voice. 

"I wanted to tell you, Audrey, " he said, "that we can probably use thegirl you spoke about, rather soon. "

"Very well. Thank you. Is--wasn't there something else, too?"

"Something else?"

"You are angry, aren't you?"

He hesitated. 

"Surprised. Not angry. I haven't any possible right to be angry. "

"Will you come up and let me tell you about it, Clay?"

"I don't see how that will help any. "

"It will help me. "

He laughed at that; her new humility was so unlike her. 

"Why, of course I'll come, Audrey, " he said, and as he rang off he washappier than he had been all day. 

He was coming. Audrey moved around the little room, adjusting chairs, rearranging the flowers that had poured in on New-year's day, brushingthe hearth. And as she worked she whistled. He would be getting into thecar now. He would be so far on his way. He would be almost there. Sheran into her bedroom and powdered her nose, with her lips puckered, still whistling, and her heart singing. 

But he scolded her thoroughly at first. 

"Why on earth did you do it, " he finished. "I still can't understand. I see you one day, gravity itself, a serious young woman--as you areto-day. And then I hear--it isn't like you, Audrey. "

"Oh yes, it is. It's exactly like me. Like one me. There are others, ofcourse. "

She told him then, making pitiful confession of her own pride and heranxiety to spare Chris's name. 

"I couldn't bear to have them suspect he had gone to the war because ofa girl. Whatever he ran away from, Clay, he's doing all right now. "

He listened gravely, with, toward the end, a jealousy he would nothave acknowledged even to himself. Was it possible that she still lovedChris? Might she not, after the fashion of women, be building a new andidealized Chris, now that he had gone to war, out of his very commonclay?

"He has done splendidly, " he agreed. 

Again the warmth and coziness of the little room enveloped him. Audrey'slow huskily sweet voice, her quick smile, her new and unaccustomedhumility, and the odd sense of her understanding, comforted him. Shemade her indefinite appeal to the best that was in him. 

Nothing so ennobles a man as to have some woman believe in his nobility. 

"Clay, " she said suddenly, "you are worrying about something. "

"Nothing that won't straighten out, in time. "

"Would it help to talk about it?"

He realized that he had really come to her to talk about it. It had beenin the back of his head all the time. 

"I'm rather anxious about Graham. "

"Toots Hayden?"

"Partly. "

"I'm afraid she's got him, Clay. There isn't a trick in the game shedoesn't know. He had about as much chance as I have of being twentyagain. She wants to make a wealthy marriage, and she's picked on Graham. That's all. "

"It isn't only Marion. I'm afraid there's another girl, a girl at themill--his stenographer. I have no proof of anything. In fact, I don'tthink there is anything yet. She's in love with him, probably, or shethinks she is. I happened on them together, and she looked--Of course, if what you say about Marion is true, he can not care for her, even, well, in any way. "

"Oh, nonsense, Clay. A man--especially a boy--can love a half-dozengirls. He can be crazy about any girl he is with. It may not be love, but it plays the same tricks with him that the real thing does. "

"I can't believe that. "

"No. You wouldn't. "

She leaned back and watched him. How much of a boy he was himself, anyhow! And yet how little he understood the complicated problems of aboy like Graham, irresponsible but responsive, rich without labor, withtime for the sort of dalliance Clay himself at the same age had hadneither leisure nor inclination to indulge. 

He was wandering about the room, his hands in his pockets, his headbent. When he stopped:

"What am I to do with the girl, Audrey?"

"Get rid of her. That's easy. "

"Not so easy as it sounds. "

He told her of Dunbar and the photographs, of Rudolph Klein, and theproblem as he saw it. 

"So there I am, " he finished. "If I let her go, I lose one of the linksin Dunbar's chain. If I keep her?"

"Can't Natalie talk to him? Sometimes a woman can get to the bottom ofthese things when a man can't. He might tell her all about it. "

"Possibly. But I think it unlikely Natalie would tell me. "

She leaned over and patted his hand impulsively. 

"What devils we women are!" she said. "Now and then one of us gets whatshe deserves. That's me. And now and then one of us get's something shedoesn't deserve. And that's Natalie. She's over-indulgent to Graham. "

"He is all she has. "

"She has you. "

Something in her voice made him turn and look at her. 

"That ought to be something, you know, " she added. And laughed a little. 

"Does Natalie pay his debts?"

"I rather think so. "

But that was a subject he could not go on with. 

"The fault is mine. I know my business better than I know how to handlemy life, or my family. I don't know why I trouble you with it all, anyhow. You have enough. " He hesitated. "That's not exactly true, either. I do know. I'm relying on your woman's wit to help me. I'm wrongsomehow. "

"About Graham?"

"I have a curious feeling that I am losing him. I can't ask for hisconfidence. I can't, apparently, even deserve it. I see him, day afterday, with all the good stuff there is in him, working as little as hecan, drinking more than he should, out half the night, running intodebt--good heavens, Audrey, what can I do?"

She hesitated. 

"Of course, you know one thing that would save him, Clay?"

"What?"

"Our getting into the war. "

"I ought not to have to lose my boy in order to find him. But--we aregoing to be in it. "

He had risen and was standing, an elbow on the mantel-piece, lookingdown at her. 

"I suppose every man wonders, once in a while, how he'd conduct himselfin a crisis. When the Lusitania went down I dare say a good many fellowswondered if they'd have been able to keep their coward bodies out of theboats. I know I did. And I wonder about myself now. What can I do if wego into the war? I couldn't do a forced march of more than five miles. I can't drill, or whatever they call it. I can shoot clay pigeons, but Idon't believe I could hit a German coming at me with a bayonet attwenty feet. I'd be pretty much of a total loss. Yet I'll want to dosomething. "

And when she sat, very silent, looking into the fire: "You see, youthink it absurd yourself. "

"Hardly absurd, " she roused herself to look up at him. "If it is, it'sthe sort of splendid absurdity I am proud of. I was wondering whatNatalie would say. "

"I don't believe it lies between a man and his wife. It's between himand his God. "

He was rather ashamed of that, however, and soon after he went away. 

CHAPTER XIX

Natalie Spencer was finding life full of interest that winter. Now andthen she read the headings in the newspapers, not because she was reallyinterested, but that she might say, at the dinner-party which was to herthe proper end of a perfect day:

"What do you think of Turkey declaring her independence?"

Or:

"I see we have taken the Etoile Wood. "

Clayton had overheard her more than once, and had marveled at thedexterity with which, these leaders thrown out, she was able to avoidcommitting herself further. 

The new house engrossed her. She was seeing a great deal of Rodney, too, and now and then she had fancied that there was a different tone inRodney's voice when he addressed her. She never analyzed that tone, or what it suggested, but it gave her a new interest in life. She wasalways marceled, massaged, freshly manicured. And she had found a newfacial treatment. Clayton, in his room at night, could hear thesharp slapping of flesh on flesh, as Madeleine gently pounded certainexpensive creams into the skin of her face and neck. 

She refused all forms of war activity, although now and then she putsome appeal before Clayton and asked him if he cared to send a check. Henever suggested that she answer any of these demands personally, afteran experience early in the winter. 

"Why don't you send it yourself?" he had asked. "Wouldn't you like it togo in your name?"

"It doesn't matter. I don't know any of the committee. "

He had tried to explain what he meant. 

"You might like to feel that you are doing something. "

"I thought my allowance was only to dress on. If I'm to attend tocharities, too, you'll have to increase it. "

"But, " he argued patiently, "if you only sent them twenty-five dollars, did without some little thing to do it, you'd feel rather more as thoughyou were giving, wouldn't you?"

"Twenty-five dollars! And be laughed at!"

He had given in then. 

"If I put an extra thousand dollars to your account to-morrow, will youcheck it out to this fund?"

"It's too much. "

"Will you?'

"Yes, of course, " she had agreed, indifferently. And he had notifiedher that the money was in the bank. But two months later the list ofcontributors was published, and neither his name nor Natalie's was amongthem. 

Toward personal service she had no inclination whatever. She wouldpromise anything, but the hour of fulfilling always found her withsomething else to do. Yet she had kindly impulses, at times, whensomething occurred to take her mind from herself. She gave liberally tostreet mendicants. She sent her car to be used by those of her friendswho had none. She was lavish with flowers to the sick--although Claytonpaid her florist bills. 

She was lavish with money--but never with herself. 

In the weeks after the opening of the new year Clayton found himselfwatching her. He wondered sometimes just what went on in her mind duringthe hours when she sat, her hands folded, gazing into space. He couldnot tell. He surmised her planning, always planning; the new house, agown, a hat, a party. 

But late in January he began to think that she was planning somethingelse. Old Terry Mackenzie had been there one night, and he hadasserted not only that war was coming, but that we would be driven toconscription to raise an army. 

"They've all had to come to it, " he insisted. "And we will, as sure asGod made little fishes. You can't raise a million volunteers for a warthat's three thousand miles away. "

"You mean, conscription among the laboring class?" Natalie had askednaively, and there had been a roar of laughter. 

"Not at all, " Terry had said. And chuckled. "This war, if it comes, isevery man's burden, rich and poor. Only the rich will give most, becausethey have most to give. "

"I think that's ridiculous, " Natalie had said. 

It was after that that Clayton began to wonder what she was planning. 

He came home late one afternoon to find that they were spending theevening in, and to find a very serious Natalie waiting, when he camedown-stairs dressed for dinner. She made an effort to be conversational, but it was a failure. He was uneasily aware that she was watching him, inspecting, calculating, choosing her moment. But it was not until theywere having coffee that she spoke. 

"I'm uneasy about Graham, Clay. "

He looked up quickly. 

"Yes?"

"I think he ought to go away somewhere. "

"He ought to stay here, and make a man of himself, " he came out, almostin spite of himself. He knew well enough that such a note always rousedNatalie's antagonism, and he waited for the storm. But none came. 

"He's not doing very well, is he?"

"He's not failing entirely. But he gives the best of himself outside themill. That's all. "

She puzzled him. Had she heard of Marion?

"Don't you think, if he was away from this silly crowd he plays with, ashe calls it, that he would be better off?"

"Where, for instance?"

"You keep an agent in England. He could go there. Or to Russia, if theRussian contract goes through. "

He was still puzzled. 

"But why England or Russia?"

"Anywhere out of this country. "

"He doesn't have to leave this country to get away from a designingwoman. "

From her astonished expression, he knew that he had been wrong. She wasnot trying to get him away from Marion. From what?

She bent forward, her face set hard. 

"What woman?"

Well, it was out. She might as well know it. "Don't you think itpossible, Natalie, that he may intend to marry Marion Hayden?"

There was a very unpleasant half-hour after that. Marion was a parasiteof the rich. She had abused Natalie's hospitality. She was designing. She played bridge for her dress money. She had ensnared the boy. 

And then:

"That settles it, I should think. He ought to leave America. If you havea single thought for his welfare you'll send him to England. "

"Then you hadn't known about Marion when you proposed that before?"

"No. I knew he was not doing well. And I'm anxious. After all, he's myboy. He is--"

"I know, " he supplemented gravely. "He is all you have. But I stilldon't understand why he must leave America. "

It was not until she had gone up-stairs to her room, leaving himuneasily pacing the library floor, that he found the solution. Old TerryMackenzie and his statement about conscription. Natalie wanted Grahamsent out of the country, so he would be safe. She would purchase forhint a shameful immunity, if war came. She would stultify the boy tokeep him safe. In that hour of clear vision he saw how she had alwaysstultified the boy, to keep him safe. He saw her life a series of smallsubterfuges, of petty indulgences, of little plots against himself, alldirected toward securing Graham immunity--from trouble at school, fromdebt, from his own authority. 

A wave of unreasoning anger surged over him, but with it there was pity, too; pity for the narrowness of her life and her mind, pity for her veryselfishness. And for the first time in his life he felt a shamefacedpity for himself. He shook himself violently. When a man got sorry forhimself--

CHAPTER XX

Rudolph Klein had not for a moment believed Anna's story about thewatch, and on the day after he discovered it on her wrist he verifiedhis suspicions. During his noon hour he went up-town and, with theconfident swagger of a certain type of man who feels himself out ofplace, entered the jeweler's shop in question. 

He had to wait for some little time, and he spent it in surveyingcontemptuously the contents of the show-cases. That even his wildestestimate fell far short of their value he did not suspect, but his lipscurled. This was where the money earned by honest workmen was spent, that women might gleam with such gewgaws. Wall Street bought them, WallStreet which was forcing this country into the war to protect its loansto the Allies. America was to pull England's chestnuts out of the firethat women, and yet more women, might wear those strings of pearls, those glittering diamond baubles. 

Into his crooked mind there flashed a line from a speech at the ThirdStreet hall the night before: "War is hell. Let those who want to, go tohell. "

So--Wall Street bought pearls for its women, and the dissolute sons ofthe rich bought gold wrist-watches for girls they wanted to seduce. The expression on his face was so terrible that the clerk behind thecounter, waiting to find what he wanted, was startled. 

"I want to look at gold wrist-watches, " he said. And eyed the clerk fora trace of patronage. 

"Ladies?"

"Yes. "

He finally found one that was a duplicate of Anna's, and examined itcarefully. Yes, it was the same, the maker's name on the dial, the spacefor the monogram on the back, everything. 

"How much is this one?"

"One hundred dollars. "

He almost dropped it. A hundred dollars! Then he remembered Anna'sstory. 

"Have you any gold-filled ones that look like this?"

"We do not handle gold-filled cases. "

He put it down, and turned to go. Then he stopped. 

"Don't sell on the installment plan, either, I suppose?" The sneer inhis voice was clearer than his anxiety. In his mind, he already knew theanswer. 

"Sorry. No. "

He went out. So he had been right. That young skunk had paid a hundreddollars for a watch for Anna. To Rudolph it meant but one thing. 

That had been early in January. For some days he kept his own counsel, thinking, planning, watching. He was jealous of Graham, but with acalculating jealousy that set him wondering how to turn his knowledge tohis own advantage. And Anna's lack of liberty comforted him somewhat. Hecouldn't meet her outside the mill, at least not without his knowing it. 

He established a system of espionage over her that drove her almost tomadness. 

"What're you hanging round for?" she would demand when he steppedforward at the mill gate. "D'you suppose I never want to be by myself?"

Or:

"You just go away, Rudolph Klein. I'm going up with some of the girls. "

But she never lost him. He was beside her or at her heels, his smallcrafty eyes on her. When he walked behind her there was a sensuous gleamin them. 

After a few weeks she became terrified. There was a coldness of deviltryin him, she knew. And he had the whip-hand. She was certain he knewabout the watch, and her impertinence masked an agony of fear. Supposehe went to her father? Why, if he knew, didn't he go to her father?

She suspected him, but she did not know of what. She knew he wasan enemy of all government, save that of the mob, that he was anincendiary, a firebrand who set on fire the brutish passions of acertain type of malcontents. She knew, for all he pretended to be thevoice of labor, he no more represented the honest labor of the countrythan he represented law and order. 

She watched him sometimes, at the table, when on Sundays he ate themid-day meal with them; his thin hatchet face, his prominent epiglottis. He wore a fresh cotton shirt then, with a flaming necktie, but he didnot clean his fingernails. And his talk was always of tearing down, never of building up. 

"Just give us time, and we'll show them, " he often said. And "them" wasalways the men higher up. 

He hated policemen. He and Herman had had many arguments aboutpolicemen. Herman was not like Rudolph. He believed in law and order. Heeven believed in those higher up. But he believed very strongly in thefraternity of labor. Until the first weeks of that New-year, HermanKlein, outside the tyranny of his home life, represented very fairly acertain type of workman, believing in the dignity and integrity of hisorder. But, with his failure to relocate himself, something went wrongin Herman. He developed, in his obstinate, stubborn, German heada suspicion of the land of his adoption. He had never troubled tounderstand it. He had taken it for granted, as he took for granted thatAnna should work and turn over her money to him. 

Now it began to ask things of him. Not much. A delegation of womencame around one night and asked him for money for Belgian Relief. Thedelegation came, because no one woman would venture alone. 

"I have no money for Belgians, " he said. He would not let them come in. "Why should I help the Belgians? Liars and hypocrites!"

The story went about the neighborhood, and he knew it. He cared nothingfor popularity, but he resented losing his standing in the community. And all along he was convinced that he was right; that the Belgians hadlied. There had been, in the Germany he had left, no such will towanton killing. These people were ignorant. Out of the depths of theirignorance they talked. 

He read only German newspapers. In the little room back of GustavShroeder's he met only Germans. And always, at his elbow, there wasRudolph. 

Until the middle of January Rudolph had not been able to get him to oneof his incendiary meetings. Then one cold night while Anna sewed by thelamp inside the little house, Rudolph and Herman walked in the frozengarden, Herman with his pipe, Rudolph with the cheap cigarets he usedincessantly. Anna opened the door a crack and listened at first. She waswatchful of Rudolph, always, those days. But the subject was not Anna. 

"You think we get in, then?" Herman asked. 

"Sure. "

"But for what?"

"So 'Spencers' can make more money out of it, " said Rudolph bitterly. "And others like them. But they and their kind don't do the dying. It'sthe workers that go and die. Look at Germany!"

"Yes. It is so in Germany. "

"All this talk about democracy--that's bunk. Just plain bunk. Why shouldthe workers in this country kill the workers in another? Why? To makemoney for capital--more money. "

"Ja, " Herman assented. "That is what war is. Always the same. I camehere to get away from war. "

"Well, you didn't get far enough. You left a king behind, but we've gota Czar here. "

Herman was slowly, methodically, following an earlier train of thought. 

"I am a workman, " he said. "I would not fight against other workmen. Just as I, a German, will not fight against other Germans. "

"But you would sit here, on the hill, and do nothing. "

"What can I do? One man, and with no job. "

"Come to the meeting to-night. "

"You and your meetings!" the old German said impatiently. "You talk. That's all. "

Rudolph lowered his voice. 

"You think we only talk, eh? Well, you come and hear some things. Talk!You come, " he coaxed, changing his tone. "And we'll have some beer andschnitzel at Gus's after. My treat. How about it?"

Old Herman assented. He was tired of the house, tired of the frozengarden, tired of scolding the slovenly girl who pottered around all dayin a boudoir cap and slovenly wrapper. Tired of Anna's rebellious faceand pert answers. 

He went inside the house and put a sweater under his coat, and got hiscap. 

"I go out, " he said, to the impassive figure under the lamp. "You willstay in. "

"Oh, I don't know. I may take a walk. "

"You will stay in, " he repeated, and followed Rudolph outside. There hereached in, secured the key, and locked the door on the outside. Anna, listening and white with anger, heard his ponderous steps going aroundto the back door, and the click as he locked that one also. 

"Beast!" she muttered. "German schwein. "

It was after midnight when she heard him coming back. She prepared toleap out of her bed when he came up-stairs, to confront him angrily andtell him she was through. She was leaving home. But long after she hadmiserably cried herself to sleep, Herman sat below, his long-stemmedpipe in his teeth, his stockinged feet spread to the dying fire. 

In that small guarded hail that night he had learned many surprisingthings, there and at Gus's afterward. The Fatherland's war was alreadybeing fought in America, and not only by Germans. The workers of theworld had banded themselves together, according to the night's speakers. And because they were workers they would not fight the German workers. It was all perfectly simple. With the cooperation of the workers of theworld, which recognized no country but a vast brotherhood of labor, itwas possible to end war, all war. 

In the meantime, while all the workers all over the world were beingorganized, one prevented as much as possible any assistance going tocapitalistic England. One did some simple thing--started a strike, or sawed lumber too short, or burned a wheat-field, or put nailsin harvesting machinery, or missent perishable goods, or changedsignal-lights on railroads, or drove copper nails into fruit-trees, sothey died. This was a pity, the fruit-trees. But at least they did notfurnish fruit for Germany's enemies. 

So each one did but one thing, and that small, so small that it wasdifficult to discover. But there were two hundred thousand men to dothem, according to Rudolph, and that meant a great deal. 

Only one thing about the meeting Herman had not liked. There werepackages of wicked photographs going about. Filthy things. When theycame to him he had dropped them on the floor. What had they to do withGermany's enemies, or preventing America from going into the war?

Rudolph laughed when he dropped them. 

"They won't bite you!" he had said, and had stooped to pick them up. ButHerman had kept his foot on them. 

So--America would go into the war against the Fatherland, unless manyhundreds of thousands did each their little bit. And if they did not, America would go in, and fight for England to control the seas, and theSpencer plant would make millions of shells that honest German workers, sweat-brothers of the world, might die. 

He remembered word for word the peroration of the evening's speech. 

"We would extend the hand of brotherhood to the so-called enemy, andstrangle the cry for war in the fat white throats of the blood-bloatedmoney-lenders of Wall Street, before it became articulate. "

He was very tired. He stooped and picked up his shoes, and with them inhis hand, drawn to his old-time military erectness, he stood for sometime before the gilt-framed picture on the wall. Then he went slowly andponderously up-stairs to bed. 

CHAPTER XXI

From the moment, the day before Christmas, when Graham had taken thelittle watch from his pocket and fastened it on Anna's wrist, he wasrather uneasily aware that she had become his creature. He had had nointention of buying Anna. He was certainly not in love with her. But hefound her amusing and at times comforting. 

He had, of course, expected to lose her after the unlucky day whenClayton had found them together, but Dunbar had advised that she bekept on for a time at least. Mentally Graham figured that the first ofJanuary would see her gone, and the thought of a Christmas present forher was partly compounded of remorse. 

He had been buying a cigaret case for Marion when the thought came tohim. He had not bought a Christmas present for a girl, except flowers, since the first year he was at college. He had sent Delight one thatyear, a half-dozen little leather-bound books of poetry. What a preciousyoung prig he must have been! He knew now that girls only pretended tocare for books. They wanted jewelry, and they got past the family withit by pretending it was not real, or that they had bought it out oftheir allowances. One of Toots' friends was taking a set of silver foxfrom a man, and she was as straight as a die. Oh, he knew girls, now. 

The next day he asked Anna Klein: "What would you like for Christmas?"

Anna, however, had insisted that she did not want a Christmas present. 

Later on, however, she had seen a watch one of the girls on the hillhad bought for twelve dollars, and on his further insistence a day or solater she had said:

"Do you really want to know?"

"Of course I do. "

"You oughtn't to spend money on me, you know. "

"You let me attend to that. Now, out with it!"

So she told him rather nervously, for she felt that twelve dollars was aconsiderable sum. He had laughed, and agreed instantly, but when he wentto buy it he found himself paying a price that rather startled him. 

"Don't you lose it, young lady!" he admonished her when, the day beforeChristmas, he fastened it on her wrist. Then he had stooped down to kissher, and the intensity of feeling in her face had startled him. "It'sa good watch, " he had said, rather uneasily; "no excuse for your beinglate now!"

All the rest of the day she was radiant. 

He meant well enough even then. He had never pretended to love her. Heaccepted her adoration, petted and teased her in return, worked off hisoccasional ill humors on her, was indeed conscious sometimes that he wasbehaving extremely well in keeping things as they were. 

But by the middle of January he began to grow uneasy. The atmosphere atMarion's was bad; there was a knowledge of life plus an easy tolerationof certain human frailties that was as insidious as a slow fever. Themotto of live and let live prevailed. And Marion refused to run awaywith him and marry him, or to let him go to his father. 

In his office all day long there was Anna, so yielding, so surely his totake if he wished. Already he knew that things there must either end orgo forward. Human emotions do not stand still; they either advance or goback, and every impulse of his virile young body was urging him on. 

He made at last an almost frenzied appeal to Marion to marry him atonce, but she refused flatly. 

"I'm not going to ruin you, " she said. "If you can't bring your peopleround, we'll just have to wait. "

"They'd be all right, once it is done. "

"Not if I know your father! Oh, he'd be all right--in ten years or so. But what about the next two or three? We'd have to live, wouldn't we?"

He lay awake most of the night thinking things over. Did she really carefor him, as Anna cared, for instance? She was always talking about theirhaving to live. If they couldn't manage on his salary for a while, thenit was because Marion did not care enough to try. 

For the first time he began to question Marion's feeling for him. Shehad been rather patronizing him lately. He had overheard her, once, speaking of him as a nice kid, and it rankled. In sheer assertion of hismanhood he met Anna Klein outside the mill at the noon hour, the nextday, and took her for a little ride in his car. After that he repeatedlydid the same thing, choosing infrequented streets and roads, dining withher sometimes at a quiet hotel out on the Freeland road. 

"How do you get away with this to your father?" he asked her once. 

"Tell him you're getting ready to move out to the new plant, and we'reworking. He's not round much in the evenings now. He's at meetings, orswilling beer at Gus's saloon. They're a bad lot, Graham, that crowd atGus's. "

"How do you mean, bad?"

"Well, they're Germans, for one thing, the sort that shouts about theFatherland. They make me sick. "

"Let's forget them, honey, " said Graham, and reaching under thetable-cloth, caught and held one of her hands. 

He was beginning to look at things with the twisted vision of Marion'sfriends. He intended only to flirt a little with Anna Klein, but heconsidered that he was extremely virtuous and, perhaps, a bit of a foolfor letting things go at that. Once, indeed, Tommy Hale happened on themin a road-house, sitting very quietly with a glass of beer before Grahamand a lemonade in front of Anna, and had winked at him as though he hadreceived him into the brotherhood of those who were seeing life. 

Then, near the end of January, events took another step forward. RudolphKlein was discharged from the mill. 

Clayton, coming down one morning, found the manager, Hutchinson, andDunbar in his office. The two men had had a difference of opinion, andthe matter was laid before him. 

"He is a constant disturbing element, " Hutchinson finished; "Iunderstand Mr. Dunbar's position, but we can't afford to have the menthrown into a ferment, constantly. "

"If you discharge him you rouse his suspicions and those of his gang, "said Dunbar, sturdily. 

"There is a gang, then?"

"A gang! My God!"

In the end, however, Clayton decided to let Rudolph go. Hutchinson wasinsistent. Production was falling down. One or two accidents to themachinery lately looked like sabotage. He had found a black cat crudelydrawn on the cement pavement outside his office-door that verymorning, the black cat being the symbol of those I. W. W. 's who advocateddestruction. 

"What about the girl?" Dunbar asked, when the manager had gone. 

"I have kept her, against my better judgment, Mr. Dunbar. "

For just a moment Dunbar hesitated. He knew certain things that ClaytonSpencer did not, things that it was his business to know. The girl mightbe valuable one of these days. She was in love with young Spencer. Thetime might come when he, Dunbar, would need to capitalize that love anduse it against Rudolph and the rest of the crowd that met in the littleroom behind Shroeder's saloon. It was too bad, in a way. He was sorryfor this man with the strong, repressed face and kindly mouth, who satacross from him. But these were strange times. A man could not be tooscrupulous. 

"Better keep her on for a month or two, anyhow, " he said. "They're up tosomething, and I miss my guess if it isn't directed against you. "

"How about Herman Klein?"

"Nothing doing, " stated Mr. Dunbar, flatly. "Our informer is tending barat Gus's. Herman listens and drinks their beer, but he's got the Germanfear of authority in him. He's a beer socialist. That's all. "

But in that Mr. Dunbar left out of account the innate savagery thatlurked under Herman's phlegmatic surface. 

"You don't think it would do if she was moved to another office?"

"The point is this. " Dunbar moved his chair forward. "The time may comewhen we will need the girl as an informer. Rudolph Klein is infatuatedwith her. Now I understand that she has a certain feeling of--loyaltyto Mr. Graham. In that case"--he glanced at Clayton--"the welfare of themany, Mr. Spencer, against the few. "

For a long time after he was gone Clayton sat at his desk, thinking. Every instinct in him revolted against the situation thus forced on him. There was something wrong with Dunbar's reasoning. Then it flashed onhim that Dunbar probably was right, and that their points of view werebitterly opposed. Dunbar would have no scruples, because he was notquite a gentleman. But war was a man's game. It was not the time forfine distinctions of ethics. And Dunbar was certainly a man. 

If only he could talk it over with Natalie! But he knew Natalie too wellto expect any rational judgment from her. She would demand at once thatthe girl should go. Yet he needed a woman's mind on it. In any questionof relationship between the sexes men were creatures of impulse, butwomen had plotted and planned through the ages. They might lose theirstandards, but never their heads. Not that he put such a thought intowords. He merely knew that women were better at such things than men. 

That afternoon, as a result of much uncertainty, he took his problem toAudrey. And Audrey gave him an answer. 

"You've got to think of the mill, Clay, " she said. "The Dunbar man isright. And all you or any other father of a boy can do is to pray inseason, and to trust to Graham's early training. "

And all the repressed bitterness in Clayton Spencer's heart was in hisanswer. 

"He never had any early training, Audrey. Oh, he had certain things. Hismanners, for instance. But other things? I ought not to say that. It wasmy fault, too. I'm not blaming only Natalie. Only now, when it is all wehave to count on--"

He was full of remorse when he started for home. He felt guilty of everydisloyalty. And in masculine fashion he tried to make up to Natalie forthe truth that had been wrung from him. He carried home a great bunch ofroses for her. But he carried home, too, a feeling of comfort and vaguehappiness, as though the little room behind him still reached out andheld him in its warm embrace. 

CHAPTER XXII

In the evening of the thirty-first of January Clayton and Graham werewaiting for Natalie to come down to dinner when the bell rang, andDunbar was announced. Graham welcomed the interruption. He had beenvaguely uneasy with his father since that day in his office when Claytonhad found him on Anna Klein's desk. Clayton had tried to restore the oldfriendliness of their relation, but the boy had only half-heartedly methis advances. Now and then he himself made an overture, but it was thealmost timid advance of a puppy that has been beaten. It left Claytondiscouraged and alarmed, set him to going back over the past for anyseverity on his part to justify it. Now and then he wondered if, in Graham's frequent closetings with Natalie, she did not covertlyundermine his influence with the boy, to increase her own. 

But if she did, why? What was going on behind the impassive, lovely maskthat was her face. 

Dunbar was abrupt, as usual. 

"I've brought you some news, Mr. Spencer, " he said. He looked oddlyvital and alive in the subdued and quiet room. "They've shown their handat last. But maybe you've heard it. "

"I've heard nothing new. "

"Then listen, " said Dunbar, bending forward over a table, much as it washis habit to bend over Clayton's desk. "We're in it at last. Or as goodas in it. Unrestricted submarine warfare! All merchant-ships boundto and from Allied ports to be sunk without warning! We're to beallowed--mark this, it's funny!--we're to be allowed to send one ship aweek to England, nicely marked and carrying passengers only. "

There was a little pause. Clayton drew a long breath. 

"That means war, " he said finally. 

"Hell turned over and stirred up with a pitch-fork, if we have anybackbone at all, " agreed Dunbar. He turned to Graham. "You youngfellows'll be crazy about this. "

"You bet we will, " said Graham. 

Clayton slipped an arm about the boy's shoulders. He could not speak fora moment. All at once he saw what the news meant. He saw Graham goinginto the horror across the sea. He saw vast lines of marching men, boys like Graham, boys who had frolicked through their carelessdays, whistled and played and slept sound of nights, now laden likepack-animals and carrying the implements of death in their hands, goingforward to something too terrible to contemplate. 

And a certain sure percentage of them would never come back. 

His arm tightened about the boy. When he withdrew it Grahamstraightened. 

"If it's war, it's my war, father. "

And Clayton replied, quietly:

"It is your war, old man. "

Dunbar turned his back and inspected Natalie's portrait. When he facedabout again Graham was lighting a cigaret, and Natalie herself wasentering the room. In her rose-colored satin she looked exotic, beautiful, and Dunbar gave her a fleeting glance of admiration as hebowed. She looked too young to have a boy going to war. Behind her hesuddenly saw other women, thousands of other women, living luxuriouslives, sheltered and pampered, and suddenly called on to face sacrificewithout any training for it. 

"Didn't know you were going out, " he said. "Sorry. I'll run along now. "

"We are dining at home, " said Natalie, coldly. She remained standingnear the door, as a hint to the shabby gentleman with the alert eyes whostood by the table. But Dunbar had forgotten her already. 

"I came here right away, " he explained, "because you may be havingtrouble now. In fact, I'm pretty sure you will. If we declare warto-morrow, as we may?"

"War!" said Natalie, and took a step forward. 

Dunbar remembered her. 

"We will probably declare war in a day or two. The Germans. .. "

But Natalie was looking at Clayton with a hostility in her eyes she tookno trouble to conceal. 

"I hope you'll be happy, now. You've been talking war, wanting war--andnow you've got it. "

She turned and went out of the room. The three men in the library belowheard her go up the stairs and the slam of her door behind her. Lateron she sent word that she did not care for any dinner, and Clayton askedDunbar to remain. Practical questions as to the mill were discussed, Graham entering into them with a new interest. He was flushed andexcited. But Clayton was rather white and very quiet. 

Once Graham took advantage of Dunbar's preoccupation with his asparagusto say:

"You don't object to the aviation service, father?"

"Wherever you think you can be useful. "

After coffee Graham rose. 

"I'll go and speak to mother, " he said. And Clayton felt in him a newmanliness. It was as though his glance said, "She is a woman, you know. War is men's work, work for you and me. But it's hard on them. "

Afterward Clayton was to remember with surprise how his friends gatheredthat night at the house. Nolan came in early, his twisted grin ratheraccentuated, his tall frame more than usually stooped. He stood in thedoorway of the library, one hand in his pocket, a familiar attitudewhich made him look oddly boyish. 

"Well!" he drawled, without greeting. "They've done it. The English havegot us. We hadn't a chance. The little Welshman--"

"Come in, " Clayton said, "and talk like an American and not an Irishman. I don't want to know what you think about Lloyd George. What are yougoing to do?"

"I was thinking, " Nolan observed, advancing, "of blowing up Washington. We'd have a fresh start, you see. With Washington gone root and branchwe would have some sort of chance, a clear sweep, with the capital hereor in Boston. Or London. "

Clayton laughed. Behind Nolan's cynicism he felt a real disturbance. ButDunbar eyed him uncertainly. He didn't know about some of these Irish. They'd fight like hell, of course, if only they'd forget England. 

"Don't worry about Washington, " Clayton said. "Let it work out its ownproblems. We will have our own. What do you suppose men like you andmyself are going to do? We can't fight. "

Nolan settled himself in a long chair. 

"Why can't we fight?" he asked. "I heard something the other day. Roosevelt is going to take a division abroad--older men. I rather likethe idea. Wherever he goes there'll be fighting. I'm no Rough Rider, Godknows; but I haven't spent a half hour every noon in a gymnasium for thelast ten years for nothing. And I can shoot. "

"And you are free, " Clayton observed, quietly. 

Nolan looked up. 

"It's going to be hard on the women, " he said. "You're all right. Theywon't let you go. You're too useful where you are. But of course there'sthe boy. "

When Clayton made no reply Nolan glanced at him again. 

"I suppose he'll want to go, " he suggested. 

Clayton's face was set. For more than an hour now Graham had beencloseted with his mother, and as the time went on, and no slam of a doorup-stairs told of his customary method of leaving a room, he had beenconscious of a growing uneasiness. The boy was soft; the fiber in himhad not been hardened yet, not enough to be proof against tears. Hewanted desperately to leave Nolan, to go up and learn what arguments, what coaxing and selfish whimperings Natalie was using with the boy. But he wanted, also desperately, to have the boy fight his own fight andwin. 

"He will want to go, I think. Of course, his mother will be shaken justnow. It'll all new to her. She wouldn't believe it was coming. "

"He'll go, " Nolan said reflectively. "They'll all go, the best of themfirst. After all, we've been making a lot of noise about wanting to getinto the thing. Now we're in, and that's the first price we pay--theboys. "

A door slammed up-stairs, and Clayton heard Graham coming down. Hepassed the library door, however, and Clayton suddenly realized that hewas going out. 

"Graham!" he called. 

Graham stopped, and came back slowly. 

"Yes, father, " he said, from the doorway. 

"Aren't you coming in?"

"I thought I'd go out for a hit of a spin, if you don't mind. Evening, Mr. Nolan. "

The boy was shaken. Clayton knew it from his tone. All the fine vigor ofthe early evening was gone. And an overwhelming rage filled him, againstNatalie, against himself, even against the boy. Trouble, which shouldhave united his house, had divided it. The first threat of trouble, indeed. 

"You can go out later, " he said rather sharply. "We ought to talk thingsover, Graham. This is a mighty serious time. "

"What's the use of talking things over, father? We don't know anythingbut that we may declare war. "

"That's enough, isn't it?"

But he was startled when he saw Graham's face. He was very pale andhis eyes already looked furtive. They were terribly like Natalie's eyessometimes. The frankness was gone out of them. He came into the room, and stood there, rigid. 

"I promised mother to get her some sleeping-powders. "

"Sleeping-powders!"

"She's nervous. "

"Bad things, sleeping-powders, " said Nolan. "Get her to take somesetting-up exercises by an open window and she'll sleep like a top. "

"Do you mind, if I go, father?"

Clayton saw that it was of no use to urge the boy. Graham wanted toavoid him, wanted to avoid an interview. The early glow of the eveningfaded. Once again the sense of having lost his son almost overwhelmedhim. 

"Very well, " he said stiffly. And Graham went out. 

However, he did not leave the house. At the door he met DoctorHaverford. And Delight, and Clayton heard the clergyman's big bassbooming through the hall. 

"--like a lamb to the slaughter!" he was saying. "And I a man of peace!"

When he came into the library he was still holding forth with anaffectation of rage. 

"I ask you, Clayton, " he said, "what refuge is there for a man of peace?My own child, leading me out into the night, and inquiring on the wayover if I did not feel that the commandment not to kill was a seriouserror. "

"Of course he's going, " she said. "He has been making the mostoutrageous excuses, just to hear mother and me reply to them. And allthe time nothing would hold him back. "

"My dear, " said the rector solemnly. "T shall have to tell yousomething. I shall have to lay bare the secrets of my heart. How areyou, Nolan? Delight, they will not take me. I have three back teeth ona plate. I have never told you this before. I did not wish to ruin yourbelief that I am perfect. But--"

In the laugh that greeted this Graham returned. He was, Clayton saw, vaguely puzzled by the rector and rather incredulous as to Delight'sattitude. 

"Do you really want him to go?" he asked her. 

"Of course. Aren't you going? Isn't everybody who is worth anythinggoing? I'd go myself if I could. You don't know how lucky you are. "

"But is your Mother willing?"

"Why, what sort of a mother do you think I have?"

Clayton overheard that, and he saw Graham wince. His own hands clenched. What a power in the world a brave woman was! And what evil could bewrought by a woman without moral courage, a selfish woman. He broughthimself up short at that. 

Others came in. Hutchinson, from the mill. Terry Mackenzie, Rodney Page, in evening clothes and on his way from the opera to something or other. In a corner Graham and Delight talked. The rector, in a high state ofexaltation, was inclined to be oratorical and a trifle noisy. He dilatedon the vast army that would rise overnight, at the call. He consideredthe raising of a company from his own church, and nominated Clayton asits captain. Nolan grinned sardonically. 

"Precisely, " he said dryly. "Clayton, because he looks like a Greek god, is ideally fitted to lead a lot of men who never saw a bayonet outsideof a museum. Against trained fighting men. There's a difference youknow, dominie, between a clay pigeon and a German with a bomb in onehand and a saw-toothed bayonet in the other. "

"We did that in the Civil War. "

"We did. And it took four years to fight a six-months war. "

"We must have an army. I daresay you'll grant that. "

"Well, you can bet on one thing; we're not going to have every ward bosswho wants to make a record raising a regiment out of his henchmen andleading them to death. "

"What would you suggest?" inquired the rector, rather crestfallen. 

"I'd suggest training men as officers. And then--a draft. "

"Never come to it in the world. " Hutchinson spoke up. "I've heard men inthe mill talking. They'll go, some of them, but they won't be driven. Itwould be civil war. "

Clayton glanced at Graham as he replied. The boy was leaning forward, listening. 

"There's this to be said for the draft, " he said. "Under the volunteersystem the best of our boys will go first. That's what happened inEngland. And they were wiped out. It's every man's war now. There is noreason why the few should be sacrificed for the many. "

"And there's this, too, " Graham broke in. He was flushed and nervous. "A fellow would have to go. He wouldn't be having to think whether hisgoing would hurt anybody or not. He wouldn't have to decide. He'd--justgo. "

There was a little hush in the room. Then Nolan spoke. 

"Right-o!" he said. "The only trouble about it is that it's likely toleave out some of us old chaps, who'd like to have a fist in it. "

Hutchinson remained after the others had gone. He wanted to discuss thechange in status of the plant. 

"We'll be taken over by the government, probably, " Clayton told him. "They have all the figures, capacity and so on. The Ordnance Departmenthas that in hand. "

Hutchinson nodded. He had himself made the report. 

"We'll have to look out more than ever, I suppose, " he said, as he roseto go. "The government is guarding all bridges and railways already. Meta lot of National Guard boys on the way. "

Graham left when he did, offering to take him to his home, and Claytonsat for some time alone, smoking and thinking. So the thing had come atlast. A year from now, and where would they all be? The men who had beenthere to-night, himself, Graham? Would they all be even living? WouldGraham--?

He looked back over the years. Graham a baby, splashing water in hisbath and shrieking aloud with joy; Graham in his first little-boyclothes, riding a velocipede in the park and bringing in bruises of anamazing size and blackness; Graham going away to school, and manfullyfixing his mind on his first long trousers, so he would not cry;Graham at college, coming in with the winning crew, and stumbling, halfcollapsed, into the arms of a waiting, cheering crowd. And the Grahamwho had followed his mother up the stairs that night, to come downbaffled, thwarted, miserable. 

He rose and threw away his cigar. He must have the thing out withNatalie. The boy's soul was more important than his body. He wanted himsafe. God, how he wanted him safe! But he wanted him to be a man. 

Natalie's room was dark when he went in. He hesitated. Then he heard herin bed, sobbing quietly. He was angry at himself for his impatience atthe sound. He stood beside the bed, and forced a gentleness he did notfeel. 

"Can I get you anything?" he asked. 

"No, thank you. " And he moved toward the lamp. "Don't turn the light on. I look dreadful. "

"Shall I ring for Madeleine?"

"No. Graham is bringing me a sleeping-powder. "

"If you are not sleepy, may I talk to you about some things?"

"I'm sick, Clay. My head is bursting. "

"Sometimes it helps to talk out our worries, dear. " He was stilldeterminedly gentle. 

He heard her turning her pillow, and settling herself more comfortably. 

"Not to you. You've made up your mind. What's the use?"

"Made up my mind to what?"

"To sending Graham to be killed. "

"That's hardly worthy of you, Natalie, " he said gravely. "He is my son, too. I love him at least as much as you do. I don't think this is reallyup to us, anyhow. It is up to him. If he wants to go?"

She sat up, suddenly, her voice thin and high. 

"How does he know what he wants?" she demanded. "He's too young. Hedoesn't know what war is; you say so yourself. You say he is too youngto have a position worth while at the plant, but of course he's oldenough to go to war and have a leg shot off, or to be blinded, orsomething. " Her voice broke. 

He sat down on the bed and felt around until he found her hand. But shejerked it from him. 

"You promised me once to let him make his own decision if the timecame. "

"When did I promise that?"

"In the fall, when I came home from England. "

"I never made such a promise. "

"Will you make it now?"

"No!"

He rose, more nearly despairing than he had ever been. He could notargue with a hysterical woman. He hated cowardice, but far deeperthan that was his conviction that she had already exacted some sort ofpromise. And the boy was not like her in that respect. He regarded apromise as almost in the nature of an oath. He himself had taught himthat in the creed of a gentleman a promise was a thing of his honor, tobe kept at any cost. 

"You are compelling me to do a strange and hateful thing, " he said. "Ifyou intend to use your influence to keep him out, I shall have to offsetit by urging him to go. That is putting a very terrible responsibilityon me. "

He heard her draw her breath sharply. 

"If you do that I shall leave you, " she said, in a frozen voice. 

Suddenly he felt sorry for her. She was so weak, so childish, socowardly. And this was the nearest they had come to a complete break. 

"You're tired and nervous, " he said. "We have come a long way from whatI started out to say. And a long way from--the way things used tobe between us. If this thing, to-night, does not bring two peopletogether--"

"Together!" she cried shrilly. "When have we been together? Notin years. You have been married to your business. I am only yourhousekeeper, and Graham's mother. And even Graham you are trying to takeaway from me. Oh, go away and let me alone. "

Down-stairs, thoughts that were almost great had formulated themselvesin his mind; that to die that others might live might be better than tolive oneself; that he loved his country, although he had been shamefacedabout it; that America was really the melting-pot of the world, andthat, perhaps, only the white flame of war would fuse it into a greatnation. 

But Natalie made all these thoughts tawdry. She cheapened them. Shefound in him nothing fine; therefore there was probably nothing fine inhim. He went away, to lie awake most of the night. 

CHAPTER XXIII

But, with the breaking off of diplomatic relations, matters remainedfor a time at a standstill. Natalie dried her eyes and ordered some newclothes, and saw rather more of Rodney Page than was good for her. 

With the beginning of February the country house was far enough underway for it to be promised for June, and Natalie, the fundamentals of itsdecoration arranged for, began to haunt old-furniture shops, accompaniedalways by Rodney. 

"Not that your taste is not right, Natalie, " he explained. "It isexquisite. But these fellows are liars and cheats, some of them. Besides, I like trailing along, if you don't mind. "

Trailing along was a fairly accurate phrase. There was scarcely a daynow when Natalie's shining car, with its two men in livery, did not drawup before Rodney's office building, or stand, as unostentatiously as afire engine, not too near the entrance of his club. Clayton, goingin, had seen it there once or twice, and had smiled rather grimly. Heconsidered its presence there in questionable taste, but he felt nouneasiness. Determined as he was to give Natalie such happiness as wasstill in him to give, he never mentioned these instances. 

But a day came, early in February, which was to mark a change in therelationship between Natalie and Rodney. 

It started simply enough. They had lunched together at a down-townhotel, and then went to look at rugs. Rodney had found her ratherobdurate as to old rugs. They were still arguing the matter in thelimousine. 

"I just don't like to think of all sorts of dirty Turks and Arabs havingused them, " she protested. "Slept on them, walked on them, spilledthings on the--? ugh!"

"But the colors, Natalie dear! The old faded 'copper-tones, thedull-blues, the dead-rose! There is a beauty about age, you know. Lovelyas you are, you'll be even lovelier as an old woman. "

"I'm getting there rather rapidly. "

He turned and looked at her critically. No slightest aid that she hadgiven her beauty missed his eyes, the delicate artificial lights in herhair, her eyebrows drawn to a hair's breadth and carefully arched, thetouch of rouge under her eyes and on the lobes of her ears. But she wasbeautiful, no matter what art had augmented her real prettiness. She wasa charming, finished product, from her veil and hat to her narrowlyshod feet. He liked finished things, well done. He liked the glaze on aporcelain; he liked the perfect lacquering on the Chinese screen he hadpersuaded Natalie to buy; he preferred wood carved into the fine linesof Sheraton to the trees that grow in the Park, for instance, throughwhich they were driving. 

A Sheraton sideboard was art. Even certain forms of Colonial mahoganywere art, although he was not fond of them. And Natalie was--art. Evenif she represented the creative instincts of her dressmaker and hermilliner, and not her own--he did not like a Louis XV sofa the less thatit had not carved itself. 

Possibly Natalie appealed then to his collective instinct, he had notanalyzed it. He only knew that he liked being with her, and he was notannoyed, certainly, by the fact that he knew their constant proximitywas arousing a certain amount of comment. 

So:

"You are very beautiful, " he said with his appraising glance full onher. "You are quite the loveliest woman I know. "

"Still? With a grown son?"

"I am not a boy myself, you know. "

"What has that to do with it?"

He hesitated, then laughed a little. 

"I don't know, " he said. "I didn't mean to say that, exactly. Of course, that fact is that I'm rather glad you are not a debutante. You would begiving me odds and ends of dances if you were, you know, and shifting meas fast as possible. As it is--"

The coquetry which is a shallow woman's substitute for passion stirredin her. 

"Well? I'm awfully interested. "

He turned and faced her. 

"I wonder if you are!"

"Go on, Roddie. As it is??"

"As it is, " he said, rather rapidly, "you give me a great deal ofhappiness. I can't say all I would like to, but just being withyou--Natalie, I wonder if you know how much it means to me to see youevery day. "

"I like it, or I wouldn't do it. "

"But--I wonder if it means anything to you?"

Curiously enough, with the mere putting it into words, his feeling forher seemed to grow. He was even somewhat excited. He bent toward her, his eyes on her face, and caught one of her gloved hands. He was nolonger flirting with a pretty woman. He was in real earnest. But Nataliewas still flirting. 

"Do you want to know why I like to be with you? Because of course I do, or I shouldn't be. "

"Does a famishing man want water?"

"Because you are sane and sensible. You believe, as I do, in going onas normally as possible. All these people who go around glooming becausethere is a war across the Atlantic! They are so tiresome. Good heavens, the hysterical attitude of some women! And Clay!"

He released her hand. 

"So you like me because I'm sensible! Thanks. "

"That's a good reason, isn't it?"

"Good God, Natalie, I'm only sensible because I have to be. Not aboutthe war. I'm not talking about that. About you. "

"What have I got to do with your being sensible and sane?"

"Just think about things, and you'll know. "

She was greatly thrilled and quite untouched. It was a pleasant littlegame, and she held all the winning cards. So she said, very softly:

"We mustn't go on like this, you know. We mustn't spoil things. "

And by her very "we" let him understand that the plight was not his buttheirs. They were to suffer on, she implied, in a mutual, unacknowledgedpassion. He flushed deeply. 

But although he was profoundly affected, his infatuation was as spuriousas her pretense of one. He was a dilettante in love, as he was inart. His aesthetic sense, which would have died of an honest passion, fattened on the very hopelessness of his beginning an affair withNatalie. Confronted just then with the privilege of marrying her, hewould have drawn back in dismay. 

Since no such privilege was to be his, however, he found a deepsatisfaction in considering himself hopelessly in love with her. He wasprofoundly sorry for himself. He saw himself a tragic figure, hopelessand wretched. He longed for the unattainable; he held up empty hands tothe stars, and by so mimicking the gesture of youth, he regained youth. 

"You won't cut me out of your life, Natalie?" he asked wistfully. 

And Natalie, who would not have sacrificed this new thrill for anythingreal in the world, replied:

"It would be better, wouldn't it?"

There was real earnestness in his voice when he spoke. He had dramatizedhimself by that time. 

"Don't take away the only thing that makes life worth living, dear!"

Which Natalie, after a proper hesitation, duly promised not to do. 

There were other conversations after that. About marriage, for instance, which Rodney broadly characterized as the failure of the world; he likedtreading on dangerous ground. 

"When a man has married, and had children, he has fulfilled his dutyto the State. That's all marriage is--duty to the State. After that hefollows his normal instincts, of course. "

"If you are defending unfaithfulness?"

"Not at all. I admire faithfulness. It's rare enough for admiration. No. I'm recognizing facts. Don't you suppose even dear old Clay likes apretty woman? Of course he does. It's a total difference of view-point, Natalie. What is an incident to a man is a crime to a woman. "

Or:

"All this economic freedom of women is going to lead to other freedoms, you know. "

"What freedoms?"

"The right to live wherever they please. One liberty brings another, you know. Women used to marry for a home, for some one to keep them. Nowthey needn't, but--they have to live just the same. "

"I wish you wouldn't, Rodney. It's so--cheap. "

It was cheap. It was the old game of talking around conversationalcorners, of whispering behind mental doors. It was insidious, dangerous, and tantalizing. It made between them a bond of lowered voices, of beingon the edge of things. Their danger was as spurious as their passion, but Natalie, without humor and without imagination, found the sense ofinsecurity vaguely attractive. 

Fundamentally cold, she liked the idea of playing with fire. 

CHAPTER XXIV

When war was not immediately declared the rector, who on the Sundayfollowing that eventful Saturday of the President's speech to Congresshad preached a rousing call to arms, began to feel a bit sheepish aboutit. 

"War or no war, my dear, " he said to Delight, "it made them think for asmuch as an hour. And I can change it somewhat, and use it again, if thetime really comes. "

"Second-hand stuff!" she scoffed. "You with your old sermons, and Motherwith my old dresses! But it was a good sermon, " she added. "I havehardly been civil to that German laundress since. "

"Good gracious, Delight. Can't you remember that we must love ourenemies?"

"Do you love them? You know perfectly well that the moment you get onthe other side, if you do, you'll be jerking the cross off your collarand bullying some wretched soldier to give you his gun. "

He had a guilty feeling that she was right. 

It was February then, and they were sitting in the parish house. Delighthad been filling out Sunday-school reports to parents, an innovation shedetested. For a little while there was only the scratching of her pento be heard and an occasional squeal from the church proper, wherethe organ was being repaired. The rector sat back in his chair, hisfingertips together, and whistled noiselessly, a habit of his when hewas disturbed. Now and then he glanced at Delight's bent head. 

"My dear, " he commented finally. 

"Just a minute. That wretched little Simonton girl has been absent threeSundays out of four. And on the fourth one she said she had a toothacheand sat outside on the steps. Well, daddy?"

"Do you see anything of Graham Spencer now?"

"Very little. " She looked at him with frank eyes. "He has changedsomehow, daddy. When we do meet he is queer. I sometimes think he avoidsme. "

He fell back on his noiseless whistling. And Delight, who knew his everymood, got up and perched herself on the arm of his chair. 

"Don't you get to thinking things, " she said. And slipped an arm aroundhis neck. 

"I did think, in the winter--"

"I'll tell you about that, " she broke in, bravely. "I suppose, if he'dcared for me at all, I'd have been crazy about him. It isn't becausehe's good looking. I--well, I don't know why. I just know, as long asI can remember, I--however, that's not important. He thinks I'm a nicelittle thing and lets it go at that. It's a good bit worse, of course, than having him hate me. "

"Sometimes I think you are not very happy. "

"I'm happier than I would be trying to make him fall in love with me. Oh, you needn't be shocked. It can be done. Lots of girls do it. Itisn't any moral sense that keeps me from it, either. It's just pride. "

"My dear!"

"And there's another angle to it. I wouldn't marry a man who hasn't gota mind of his own. Even if I had the chance, which I haven't. That sillymother of his--she is silly, daddy, and selfish--Do you know what she isdoing now?"

"We ought not to discuss her. She--"

"Fiddlesticks. You love gossip and you know it. "

Her tone was light, but the rector felt that arm around his necktighten. He surmised a depth of feeling that made him anxious. 

"She is trying to marry him to Marion Hayden. "

The rector sat up, almost guiltily. 

"But--are you sure she is doing that?"

"Everybody says so. She thinks that if he is married, and there is awar, he won't want to go if he has a wife. " She was silent for a moment. "Marion will drive him straight to the devil, daddy. "

The rector reached up and took her hand. She cared more than she wouldadmit, he saw. She had thought the thing out, perhaps in the longnight--when he slept placidly. Thought and suffered, he surmised. Andagain he remembered his worldly plans for her, and felt justly punished. 

"I suppose it is hard for a father to understand how any one can knowhis little girl and not love her. Or be the better for it. "

She kissed him and slid off the arm of his chair. 

"Don't you worry, " she said cheerfully. "I had to make an ideal formyself about somebody. Every girl does. Sometimes it's the plumber. Itdoesn't really matter who it is, so you can pin your dreams to him. Theonly thing that hurts is that Graham wasn't worth while. "

She went back to her little cards, but some ten minutes later therector, lost in thought, heard the scratching of her pen cease. 

"Did you ever think, daddy, " she said, "of the influence women have overmen? Look at the Spencers. Mrs. Spencer spoiling Graham, and making herhusband desperately unhappy. And--"

"Unhappy? What makes you think that?"

"He looks unhappy. "

The rector was startled. He had an instant vision of Clayton Spencer, tall, composed, handsome, impeccably clothed. He saw him in the settingthat suited him best, the quiet elegance of his home. Clayton unhappy!Nonsense. But he was uneasy, too. That very gravity which he had noticedlately, that was certainly not the gravity of an entirely happy man. Clayton had changed, somehow. Was there trouble there? And if therewere, why?

The rector, who reduced most wretchedness to terms of dollars and cents, of impending bills and small deprivations found himself at a loss. 

"I am sure you are wrong, " he objected, rather feebly. 

Delight eyed him with the scorn of nineteen for fifty. 

"I wonder what you would do, " she observed, "if mother just lay aroundall day, and had her hair done, and got new clothes, and never thoughta thought of her own, and just used you as a sort of walkingbank-account?"

"My dear, I really can not--"

"I'll tell you what you'd do, " she persisted. "You'd fall in love withsomebody else, probably. Or else you'd just naturally dry up and be madea bishop. "

He was extremely shocked at that, and a little hurt. It took her sometime to establish cheerful relations again, and a very humble apology. But her words stuck in the rector's mind. He made a note for a sermon, with the text: "Her children arise up, and call her blessed; her husbandalso, and he praiseth her. "

He went quietly into the great stone building and sat down. The organistwas practicing the Introit anthem, and half way up the church a womanwas sitting quietly. 

The rector leaned back, and listened to the music. He often did thatwhen he had a sermon in his mind. It was peaceful and quiet. Hard tobelieve, in that peace of great arches and swelling music, that acrossthe sea at that moment men were violating that fundamental law of thechurch, "Thou shalt not kill. "

The woman turned her head, and he saw that it was Audrey Valentine. He watched her with kindly, speculative eyes. Self-reliant, frivolousAudrey, sitting alone in the church she had so casually attended--surelythat was one of the gains of war. People all came to it ultimately. Theyheld on with both hands as long as they could, and then they found theirgrasp growing feeble and futile, and they turned to the Great Strength. 

The organist had ceased. Audrey was kneeling now. The rector, eyes onthe gleaming cross above the altar, repeated softly:

"Save and deliver us, we humbly beseech Thee, from the hands of ourenemies; that we, being armed with Thy defense, may be preservedevermore from all perils. "

Audrey was coming down the aisle. She did not see him. She had, indeed, the fixed eyes of one who still looks inward. She was very pale, butthere was a new look of strength in her face, as of one who has won avictory. 

"To glorify Thee, who are the only giver of all victory, through themerits of thy Son, Jesus Christ our Lord, " finished the rector. 

CHAPTER XXV

On the last day of February Audrey came home from her shorthand classand stood wearily by the window, too discouraged even to remove her hat. The shorthand was a failure; the whole course was a failure. She had notthe instinct for plodding, for the meticulous attention to detail thatthose absurd, irrational lines and hooks and curves demanded. 

She could not even spell! And an idiot of an instructor had foundfault with the large square band she wrote, as being uncommercial. Uncommercial! Of course it was. So was she uncommercial. She had dreameda dream of usefulness, but after all, why was she doing it? We wouldnever fight. Here we were, saying to Germany that we had ceased to befriends and letting it go at that. 

She might go to England. They needed women there. But not untrainedwomen. Not, she thought contemptuously, women whose only ability lay inplaying bridge, or singing French chansons with no particular voice. 

After all, the only world that was open to her was her old world. It liked her. It even understood her. It stretched out a tolerant, pleasure-beckoning hand to her. 

"I'm a fool, " she reflected bitterly. "I'm not happy, and I'm notuseful. I might as well play. It's all I can do. "

But her real hunger was for news of Clayton. Quite suddenly he hadstopped dropping in on his way up-town. He had made himself the mostvital element in her life, and then taken himself out of it. At firstshe had thought he might be ill. It seemed too cruel otherwise. But shesaw his name with increasing frequency in the newspapers. It seemed toher that every relief organization in the country was using his name andhis services. So he was not ill. 

He had tired of her, probably. She had nothing to give, had no right togive anything. And, of course, he could not know how much he had meantto her, of courage to carry on. How the memory of his big, solid, dependable figure had helped her through the bad hours when the thoughtof Chris's defection had left her crushed and abject. 

She told herself that the reason she wanted to see Natalie was becauseshe had neglected her shamefully. Perhaps that was what was wrong withClay; perhaps he felt that, by avoiding Natalie, she was putting theirfriendship on a wrong basis. Actually, she had reached that point allloving women reach, when even to hear a beloved name, coming out of along silence, was both torture and necessity. 

She took unusual pains with her dress that afternoon, and it was a verysmart, slightly rouged and rather swaggering Audrey who made her firstcall in weeks on Natalie that afternoon. 

Natalie was a little stiff, still slightly affronted. 

"I thought you must have left town, " she said. "But you look as thoughyou'd been having a rest cure. "

"Rouge, " said Audrey, coolly. "No, I haven't been entirely resting. "

"There are all sorts of stories going about. That you're going intoa hospital; that you're learning to fly; that you're in the secretservice?"

"Just because I find it stupid going about without a man!" Natalie eyedher shrewdly, but there was no self-consciousness in Audrey's face. If the stories were true, and there had been another woman, she wascarrying it off well. 

"At least Chris is in France. I have to go, when I go, without Clay. Andthere is no excuse whatever. "

"You mean--he is working?"

"Not at night. He is simply obstinate. He says he is tired. I don'treally mind any more. He is so hatefully heavy these days. "

"Heavy! Clay!"

"My dear!" Natalie drew her chair closer and lowered her voice. "Whatcan one do with a man who simply lives war? He spends hours over thepapers. He's up if the Allies make a gain, and impossible if they don't. I can tell by the very way he slams the door of his room when he comeshome what the news is. It's dreadful. "

Audrey flushed. 

"I wish there were more like him. "

But Natalie smiled tolerantly. 

"You are not married to him. I suppose the war is important, but I don'twant it twenty-four hours a day. I want to forget it if I can. It'shideous. "

Audrey's mouth twitched. After all, what was the good of talking toNatalie. She would only be resentful. 

"How is the house coming on?" she asked. 

She had Natalie on happy ground there. For a half-hour she looked atblueprints and water-color sketches, heard Rodney's taste extolled, listened to plans for a house-party which she gathered was, ratherbelatedly, to include her. And through it all she was saying to herself, "This is his wife. This is the woman he loves. He has had a child byher. He is building this house for her. He goes into her room as Chriscame into mine. And she is not good enough. She is not good enough. "

Now that she had seen Natalie, she knew why she had not seen her before. She was jealous of her. Jealous and contemptuous. Suddenly she hatedNatalie. She hated her because she was Clayton Spencer's wife, with allthat that implied. She hated her because she was unworthy of him. Shehated her because she loved Clay, and hated her more because she lovedherself more than she loved him. 

Audrey sat back in her chair and saw that she had traveled a long wayalong a tragic road. For the first time in her brave and reckless lifeshe was frightened. She was even trembling. She lighted a cigaret fromthe stand at Natalie's elbow to steady herself. 

Natalie chattered on, and Audrey gave her the occasional nod that wasall she needed. She thought, "Does he know about her? Is he still fooled? She is almost beautiful. Rodney is falling in love with her, probably. Does he know that? Willhe care terribly if he finds it out? She looks cold, but one can't tell, and some men--has she a drop of honest, unselfish passion in her?"

She got up suddenly. 

"Heavens, how late it is!" she said. "I must run on. "

"Why not stay on to dinner? Graham is seldom home, and we can talk, ifClay doesn't. "

The temptation to see Clay again was strong in Audrey. But suddenlyshe knew that she did not want to see them together, in the intimacy oftheir home. She did not want to sit between them at dinner, and then goaway, leaving them there together. And something fundamentally honest inher told her that she had no right to sit at their table. 

"I'll come another time, if you'll ask me. Not to-day, " she said. Andleft rather precipitately. It hurt her, rather, to have Natalie, with animpulsive gesture, gather the flowers out of a great jar and insiston her carrying them home with her. It gave her a miserable sense ofplaying unfairly. 

She walked home. The fresh air, after Natalie's flower-scented, overheated room, made her more rational. She knew where she stood, anyhow. She was in love with Clayton Spencer. She had, she reflectedcynically, been in love before. A number of times before. She almostlaughed aloud. She had called those things love, those sickly romances, those feeble emotions!

Then her eyes filled with unexpected tears. She had always wanted someone to make her happy. Now she wanted to make some one happy. She carednothing for the cost. She would put herself out of it altogether. Hewas not happy. Any one could see that. He had everything, but he wasnot happy. If he belonged to her, she would live to make him happy. Shewould--

Suddenly she remembered Chris. Perhaps she did not know how to hold aman's love. She had not held him. He had protested that she was theonly woman he had ever loved, but all the time there had been that othergirl. How account for her, then?

"He did not think of me, " she reflected defiantly, "I shall not think ofhim. "

She was ashamed of that instantly. After all, Chris was doing a man'spart now. She was no longer angry with him. She had written him that, over and over, in the long letters she had made a point of sending him. Only, she did not love him any more. She thought now that she never hadloved him. 

What about the time when he came back? What would she do then? Sheshivered. 

But Chris, after all, was not to come back. He would never come backagain. The cable was there when she reached her apartment--a coldstatement, irrefutable, final. 

She had put the flowers on the table and had raised her hands to unpinher hat when she saw it. She read it with a glance first, then slowly, painfully, her heart contracted as if a hand had squeezed it. She stoodvery still, not so much stricken as horrified, and her first consciousthought was of remorse, terrible, gasping remorse. All that afternoon, while she had been hating Natalie and nursing her love for Clay, Chrishad been lying dead somewhere. 

Chris was dead. 

She felt very tired, but not faint. It seemed dreadful, indeed, that shecould be standing there, full of life, while Chris was dead. Such griefas she felt was for him, not for herself. He had loved life so, evenwhen he cheapened it. He had wanted to live and now he was dead. She, who did not care greatly to live, lived on, and he was gone. 

All at once she felt terribly alone. She wanted some one with her. Shewanted to talk it all out to some one who understood. She wanted Clay. She said to herself that she did not want him because she loved him. All love was dead in her now. She wanted him because he was strong andunderstanding. She made this very clear to herself, because she had amorbid fancy that Chris might be watching her. There were people whobelieved that sort of thing. To her excited fancy it seemed as thoughChris's cynical smile might flash out from any dusky corner. 

She knew she was not being quite rational. Which was strange, becauseshe felt so strong, and because the voice with which she calledClayton's number was so steady. She knew, too, that she was no longerin love with Clay, because his steady voice over the telephone left herquite calm and unmoved. 

"I want you to come up, Clay, " she said. "If you can, easily. "

"I can come at once. Is anything wrong?"

"Chris has been killed, " she replied, and hung up the receiver. Thenshe sat down to wait, and to watch for Chris's cynical smile to flash insome dusky corner. 

Clayton found her there, collapsed in her chair, a slim, gray-faced girlwith the rouge giving a grotesque vitality to her bloodless cheeks. Shegot up very calmly and gave him the cablegram. Then she fainted in acrumpled heap at his feet. 

CHAPTER XXVI

The new munition plant was nearing completion. Situated on the outskirtsof the city, it spread over a vast area of what had once been wasteland. Of the three long buildings, two were already in operation and thethird was well under way. 

To Clayton Spencer it was the realization of a dream. He never enteredthe great high-walled enclosure without a certain surprise at the easewith which it had all been accomplished, and a thrill of pride at theachievement. He found the work itself endlessly interesting. The casts, made of his own steel, lying in huge rusty heaps in the yard; the littlecars which carried them into the plant; the various operations by whichthe great lathes turned them out, smooth and shining, only to lose theirpolish when, heated again, they were ready for the ponderous hammer toclose their gaping jaws. The delicacy of the work appealed to him, the machining to a thousandth of an inch, the fastidious making of thefuses, tiny things almost microscopic, and requiring the delicate touchof girls, most of whom had been watchmakers and jewelry-workers. 

And with each carload of the finished shells that left the plant he felta fine glow of satisfaction. The output was creeping up. Soon they wouldbe making ten thousand shells a day. And every shell was one more chancefor victory against the Hun. It became an obsession with him to makemore, ever more. 

As the work advanced, he found an unexpected enthusiasm in Graham. Herewas something to be done, a new thing. The steel mill had been longestablished. Its days went on monotonously. The boy found it noisy, dirty, without appeal to his imagination. But the shell plant wasdifferent. There were new problems to face, of labor, of supplies, ofshipping and output. 

He was, however, reluctantly coming to the conclusion that the breakwith Germany was the final step that the Government intended to take. That it would not declare war. 

However, the break had done something. It had provided him with menfrom the local National Guard to police the plant, and he found thegovernment taking a new interest, an official interest, in his safety. Agents from the Military Intelligence and the Department of Justicescanned his employment lists and sent agents into the plant. In thebuilding where men and women were hired, each applicant passed a deskwhere they were quietly surveyed by two unobstrusive gentlemen inindifferent business suits who eyed them carefully. Around the fusedepartment, where all day girls and women handled guncotton andhigh-explosive powder, a special guard was posted, day and night. 

Early in March Clayton put Graham in charge of the first of the longbuildings to be running full, and was rewarded by a new look in theboy's face. He was almost startled at the way he took it. 

"I'll do my very best, sir, " he said, rather huskily. "If I can't fight, I can help put the swine out of business, anyhow. "

He was by that time quite sure that Natalie had extracted a promise ofsome sort from the boy. On the rare occasions when Graham was at home hewas quiet and suppressed. 

He was almost always at Marion Hayden's in the evenings, and fromthings he let fall, Clayton gathered that the irresponsible group whichcentered about Marion was, in the boy's own vernacular, rather "shot topieces. " Tommy Hale had gone to England to join the Royal Flying Corps. One or two of them were in Canada, trying to enlist there, and oneevening Graham brought home to dinner an inordinately tall and thinyoungster in the kilts of a Scotch-Canadian regiment, with an astoundinglength of thin leg below his skirts, who had been one of Marion's mostreckless satellites. 

"Look like a fool, I know, sir, " said the tall individual sheepishly. "Just had to get in it somehow. No camouflage about these skirts, isthere?"

And Clayton had noticed, with a thrill of sympathy, how wistfully Grahameyed the debonnair young Scot by adoption, and how Buckham had hoveredover him, filling his plate and his glass. Even Graham noticed Buckham. 

"Old boy looks as though he'd like to kiss you, Sid, " he said. "It's thepetticoats. Probably thinks you're a woman. "

"I look better with my legs under the table, " said the tall boy, modestly. 

Clayton was still determined that Graham should fight the thing out forhimself. He wished, sometimes, that he knew Marion Hayden's attitude. Was she like Natalie? Would she, if the time came, use her undeniableinfluence for or against? And there again he resented the influence ofwomen in the boy's life. Why couldn't he make his own decisions? Whycouldn't they let him make his own decisions?

He remembered his father, and how his grandmother, in '61, had put aBible into one pocket and a housewife into another, and had sent him offto war. Had the fiber of our women weakened since then? But he knewit had not. All day, in the new plant, women were working withhigh-explosives quite calmly. And there were Audrey and the Haverfordwomen, strong enough, in all conscience. 

Every mental path, those days, somehow led eventually to Audrey. She wasthe lighted window at the end of the long trail. 

Graham was, as a matter of fact, trying to work out his own salvation. He blundered, as youth always blunders, and after a violent scene withMarion Hayden he made an attempt to break off his growing intimacywith Anna Klein--to find, as many a man had before him, that the sheerbrutality of casting off a loving woman was beyond him. 

The scene with Marion came one Sunday in the Spencer house, with Natalieasleep up-stairs after luncheon, and Clayton walking off a sense ofirritation in the park. He did not like the Hayden girl. He could notfathom Natalie's change of front with regard to Graham and the girl. Hehad gone out, leaving them together, and Marion had launched her attackfiercely. 

"Now!" she cried. 

"I couldn't come last night. That's all, Marion. "

"It is certainly not all. Why couldn't you come?"

"I worked late. "

"Where?"

"At the plant. "

"That's a lie, Graham. I called the plant. I'll tell you where you were. You were out with a girl. You were seen, if you want to know it. "

"Oh, if you are going to believe everything you hear about me?"

"Don't act like a child. Who was the girl?"

"It isn't like you to be jealous, Marion. I let you run around all thetime with other fellows, but the minute I take a girl out for a littlespin, you're jealous. "

"Jealous!" She laughed nastily. But she knew she was losing her temper;and brought herself up short. Let him think she was jealous. What reallyailed her was deadly fear lest her careful plan go astray. She wasterrified. That was all. And she meant to learn who the girl was. 

"I know who it was, " she hazarded. 

"I think you are bluffing. "

"It was Delight Haverford. "

"Delight!"

She knew then that she was wrong, but it was her chance to assailDelight and she took it. 

"That--child!" she continued contemptuously. "Don't you suppose I'veseen how she looks at you? I'm not afraid of her. You are too much a manof the world to let her put anything over on you. At least, I thoughtyou were. Of course, if you like milk and water?"

"It was not Delight, " he said doggedly. "And I don't think we need tobring her into this at all. She's not in love with me. She wouldn't wipeher feet on me. "

Which was unfortunate. Marion smiled slowly. 

"Oh! But you are good enough for me to be engaged to! I wonder!"

He went to the window and stood for a moment looking out. Then he wentslowly back to her. 

"I'm not good enough for you to be engaged to, Marion, " he said. "I--don't you want to call it a day?"

She was really terrified then. She went white and again, miserably, hemistook her agitation for something deeper. 

"You want to break the engagement?"

"Not if you still want me. I only mean--I'm a pretty poor sort. Youought to have the best, and God help this country if I'm the best. "

"Graham, you're in some sort of trouble?"

He drew himself up in boyish bravado. He could not tell her the truth. It opened up too hideous a vista. Even his consciousness of the factthat the affair with Anna was still innocent did not dull his fullknowledge of whither it was trending. He was cold and wretched. 

"It's nothing, " he muttered. 

"You can tell me. You can tell me anything. I know a lot, you see. I'mno silly kitten. If you're in a fix, I'll help you. I don't care what itis, I'll help you. I? I'm crazy about you, Graham. "

Anna's words, too!

"Look here, Marion, " he said, roughly, "you've got to do one of twothings. Either marry me or let me go. "

"Let you go! I like that. If that is how you feel?"

"Oh--don't. " He threw up his arm. "I want you. You know that. Marryme--to-morrow. "

"I will not. Do you think I'm going to come into this family and haveyou cut off? Don't you suppose I know that Clayton Spencer hates thevery chair I sit on? He'll come and beg me to marry you, some day. Untilthen?"

"You won't do it?"

"To-morrow? Certainly not. "

And again he felt desperately his powerlessness to loosen the coils thatwere closing round him, fetters forged of his own red blood, his ownyouth, the woman-urge. 

She was watching him with her calculating glance. 

"You must be in trouble, " she said. 

"If I am, it's you and mother who have driven me there. "

He was alarmed then, and lapsed into dogged silence. His anxiety hadforced into speech thoughts that had never before been articulate. Hewas astounded to hear himself uttering them, although with the veryspeaking he realized now that they were true. 

"Sorry, Marion, " he muttered. "I didn't mean all that. I'm excited. That's all. "

When he sat down beside her again and tried to take her hand, she drewit away. 

"You've been very cruel, Graham, " she said. "I've been selfish. Everygirl who is terribly in love is selfish. I am going to give you yourring, and leave you free to do whatever you want. "

Her generosity overcame him. He was instantly ashamed, humbled. 

"Don't!" he begged. "Don't let me go. I'll just go to the dogs. If youreally care?"

"Care!" she said softly. And as he buried his head in her lap shestroked his hair softly. Her eyes, triumphant, surveyed the long room, with its satin-paneled walls, its French furniture, its long narrowgilt-framed mirrors softening the angles of the four corners. 

Some day all this would be hers. For this she would exchange the untidyand imitation elegance of her present setting. 

She stroked the boy's head absently. 

Graham made an attempt to free himself the next day. He was about tomove his office to the new plant, and he made a determination not totake Anna with him. 

He broke it to her as gently as he could. 

"Mr. Weaver is taking my place here, " he said, avoiding her eyes. 

"Yes, Graham. "

"He'll--there ought to be some one here who knows the ropes. "

"Do you mean me?"

"Well, you know them, don't you?" He had tried to smile at her. 

"Do you mean that you are going to have another secretary at the plant?"

"Look here, Anna, " he said impulsively. "You know things can't go onindefinitely, the way we are now. You know it, don't you. "

She looked down and nodded. 

"Well, don't you think I'd better leave you here?"

She fumbled nervously with her wrist-watch. 

"I won't stay here if you go, " she said finally. "I hate Mr. Weaver. I'mafraid of him. I--oh, don't leave me, Graham. Don't. I haven't anybodybut you. I haven't any home--not a real home. You ought to see him thesedays. " She always referred to her father as "him. " "He's dreadful. I'monly happy when I'm here with you. "

He was angry, out of sheer despair. 

"I've told you, " he said. "Things can't go on as they are. You know wellenough what I mean. I'm older than you are, Anna. God knows I don'twant any harm to come to you through me. But, if we continue to betogether--"

"I'm not blaming you. " She looked at him honestly. "I'd just rather haveyou care about me than marry anybody else. "

He kissed her, with a curious mingling of exultation and despair. Heleft her there when he went away that afternoon, a rather downcast youngfigure, piling up records and card-indexes, and following him to thedoor with worshiping, anxious eyes. Later on in the afternoon Joey, wandering in from Clayton's office on one of his self-constitutedobservation tours, found her crying softly while she wiped hertypewriter, preparatory to covering it for the night. 

"Somebody been treatin' you rough?" he asked, more sympathetic thancurious. 

"What are you doing here, anyhow?" she demanded, angrily. "You're alwayshanging around, spying on me. "

"Somebody's got to keep an eye on you. "

"Well, you don't. "

"Look here, " he said, his young-old face twitching with anxiety. "Youget out from under, kid. You take my advice, and get out from under. Something's going to fall. "

"Just mind your own business, and stop worrying about me. That's all. "

He turned and started out. 

"Oh, very well, " he said sharply. "But you might take a word of warning, anyhow. That cousin of yours has got an eye on you, all right. And wedon't want any scandal about the place. "

"We? Who are 'we'?"

"Me and Mr. Clayton Spencer, " said Joey, smartly, and went out, bangingthe door cheerfully. 

Anna climbed the hill that night wearily, but with a sense of reliefthat Rudolph had not been waiting for her at the yard gate. She was inno mood to thrust and parry with him. She wondered, rather dully, whatmischief Rudolph was up to. He was gaining a tremendous ascendency overher father, she knew. Herman was spending more and more of his eveningsaway from home, creaking up the stairs late at night, shoes in hand, toundress in the cold darkness across the hall. 

"Out?" she asked Katie, sitting by the fire with the evening paper. Conversation in the cottage was almost always laconic. 

"Ate early, " Katie returned. "Rudolph was here, too. I'm going to quitif I've got to cook for that sneak any longer. You'd think he had a mealticket here. Your supper's on the stove. "

"I'm not hungry. " She ate her supper, however, and undressed by thefire. Then she went up-stairs and sat by her window in the gatheringnight. She was suffering acutely. Graham was tired of her. He wanted toget rid of her. Probably he had a girl somewhere else, a lady. Her ideaof the life of such a girl had been gathered from novels. 

"The sort that has her breakfast in bed, " she muttered, "and has herclothes put on her by somebody. Her underclothes, too!"

The immodesty of the idea made her face burn with anger. 

Late that night Herman came back. 

Herman had been a difficult proposition for Rudolph to handle. Hisinnate caution, his respect for law and, under his bullying exterior, a certain physical cowardice, made him slow to move in the directionRudolph was urging. He was controversial. He liked to argue over thebeer and schnitzel Rudolph bought. And Rudolph was growing impatient. 

Rudolph himself was all eagerness and zeal. It was his very zeal thatwas his danger, although it brought him slavish followers. He wascontemptuous, ill-tempered, and impatient, but, of limited intelligencehimself, he understood for that very reason the mental processes ofthose he would lead. There was a certain simplicity even in his cunning. With Herman he was a ferret driving out of their hiding-places everyevil instinct that lay dormant. Under his goading, Herman was becomingsavage, sullen, and potentially violent. 

He was confused, too. Rudolph's arguments always confused him. 

He was confused that night, heavy with fatigue and with Rudolph's steadytalk in his ear. He was tired of pondering great questions, tired ofhearing about the Spencers and the money they were making. 

Anna's clothing was scattered about the room, and he frowned at it. Shespent too much money on her clothes. Always sewing at something--

He stooped down to gather up his shoes, and his ear thus brought closeto the table was conscious in the silence of a faint rhythmical sound. He stood up and looked about. Then he moved the newspaper on the table. Underneath it, forgotten in her anxiety and trouble, lay the little goldwatch. 

He picked it up, still following his train of thought. It fitted intothe evening's inflammable proceedings. So, with such trinkets asthis, capital would silence the cry of labor for its just share in theproducts of its skill and strength! It would bribe, and cheaply. Tendollars, perhaps, that ticking insult. For ten dollars--

He held it close to his spectacles. Ah, but it was not so cheap. It camefrom the best shop in the city. He weighed it carefully in his hand, andin so doing saw the monogram. A doubt crept into his mind, a cold andchilling fear. Since when had the Spencer plant taken to giving watchesfor Christmas? The hill girls who worked as stenographers in the plant;they came in often enough and he did not remember any watches, or anymention of watches. His mind, working slowly, recalled that never beforehad he seen the watch near at hand. And he went into a slow andpainful calculation. Fifty dollars at least it had cost. A hundredstenographers--that would be five thousand dollars for watches. 

Suddenly he knew that Anna had lied to him. One of two things, then:either she had spent money for it, unknown to him, or some one had givenit to her. There was, in his mind, not much difference in degree betweenthe two alternatives. Both were crimes of the first magnitude. 

He picked the watch up between his broad thumb and forefinger, and then, his face a cold and dreadful mask, he mounted the stairs. 

CHAPTER XXVII

Clayton Spencer was facing with characteristic honesty a situation thathe felt was both hopeless and shameful. 

He was hopelessly in love with Audrey. He knew now that he had known itfor a long time. Here was no slender sentiment, no thin romance. Withevery fiber of him, heart and soul and body, he loved her and wantedher. There was no madness about it, save the fact itself, which wasmad enough. It was not the single attraction of passion, although herecognized that element as fundamental in it. It was the craving of astrong man who had at last found his woman. 

He knew that, as certainly as he knew anything. He did not even questionthat she cared for him. It was as though they both had passed throughthe doubting period without knowing it, and had arrived together at thesame point, the crying need of each other. 

He rather thought, looking back, that Audrey had known it sooner than hehad. She had certainly known the night she learned of Chris's death. His terror when she fainted, the very way he had put her out of his armswhen she opened her eyes--those had surely told her. Yet, had Chris'scynical spirit been watching, there had been nothing, even then. 

There was, between them, nothing now. He had given way to the people whoflocked to her with sympathy, had called her up now and then, had senther a few books, some flowers. But the hopelessness of the situationheld him away from her. Once or twice, at first, he had called her onthe telephone and had waited, almost trembling, for her voice over thewire, only to ask her finally, in a voice chilled with repression, howshe was feeling, or to offer a car for her to ride in the park. And herreplies were equally perfunctory. She was well. She was still studying, but it was going badly. She was too stupid to learn all those pot-hooks. 

Once she had said:

"Aren't you ever coming to see me, Clay?"

Her voice had been wistful, and it had been a moment before he hadhimself enough in hand to reply, formally:

"Thank you. I shall, very soon. "

But he had not gone to the little fiat again. 

Through Natalie he heard of her now and then. 

"I saw Audrey to-day, " she said once. "She is not wearing mourning. It'sbad taste, I should say. When one remembers that she really drove Christo his death--"

He had interrupted her, angrily. 

"That is a cruel misstatement, Natalie. She did nothing of the sort. "

"You needn't bite me, you know. He went, and had about as much interestin this war as--as--"

"As you have, " he finished. And had gone out, leaving Natalie staringafter him. 

He was more careful after that, but the situation galled him. He was nohypocrite, but there was no need of wounding Natalie unnecessarily. Andthat, after all, was the crux of the whole situation. Natalie. It wasnot Natalie's fault that he had found the woman of his heart too late. He had no thought of blame for her. In decency, there was only one thingto do. He could not play the lover to her, but then he had not done thatfor a very long time. He could see, however, that she was not hurt. 

Perhaps, in all her futile life, Natalie had, for all her complaining, never been so content in her husband as in those early spring monthswhen she had completely lost him. He made no demands whatever. Inthe small attentions, which he had never neglected, he was even moreassiduous. He paid her ever-increasing bills without comment. Hesubmitted, in those tense days when every day made the nationalsituation more precarious, to hours of discussion as to the countryhouse, to complaints as to his own lack of social instinct, and to thatnew phase of her attitude toward Marion Hayden that left him baffled andperplexed. 

Then, on the Sunday when he left Graham and Marion together at thehouse, he met Audrey quite by accident in the park. He was almostincredulous at first. She came like the answer to prayer, a little tiredaround the eyes, showing the strain of the past weeks, but with thatsame easy walk and unconscious elegance that marked her, always. 

She was not alone. There was a tall blonde girl beside her, hideouslydressed, but with a pleasant, shallow face. Just before they met Audreystopped and held out her hand. 

"Then you'll let me know, Clare?"

"Thank you. I will, indeed, Mrs. Valentine. "

With a curious glance at Clayton the girl went on. Audrey smiled at him. 

"Please don't run!" she said. "There are people looking. It would be soconspicuous. "

"Run!" he replied. He stood looking down at her, and at something in hiseyes her smile died. 

"It's too wonderful, Clay. "

For a moment he could not speak. After all those weeks of hunger for herthere was no power in him to dissemble. He felt a mad, boyish impulse tohold out his arms to her, Malacca stick, gloves, and all!

"It's a bit of luck I hadn't expected, Audrey, " he said, at last, unsteadily. 

She turned about quite simply, and faced in the direction he was going. 

"I shall walk with you, " she said, with a flash of her old impertinence. "You have not asked me to, but I shall, anyhow. Only don't call thisluck. It isn't at all. I walk here every Sunday, and every Sunday I sayto myself--he will think he needs exercise. Then he will walk, and thelikeliest place for him to go is the park. Good reasoning, isn't it?"

She glanced up at him, but his face was set and unsmiling. "Don't payany attention to me, Clay. I'm a little mad, probably. You see"--shehesitated--"I need my friends just now. And when the very best of themall hides away from me?"

"Don't say that. I stayed away, because--" He hesitated. 

"I'm almost through. Don't worry! But I was walking along before I metClare--I'll tell you about her presently--and I was saying to myselfthat I thought God owed me something. I didn't know just what. Happiness, maybe. I've been careless and all that, but I've never beenwicked. And yet I can look back, and count the really happy days of mylife on five fingers. "

She held out one hand. 

"Five fingers!" she repeated, "and I am twenty-eight. The percentage ispretty low, you know. "

"Perhaps you and I ask too much?"

He was conscious of her quick, searching glance. 

"Oh! You feel that way, too? I mean--as I do, that it's all hardly worthwhile? But you seem to have everything, Clay. "

"You have one thing I lack. Youth. "

"Youth! At twenty-eight!"

"You can still mold your life, Audrey dear. You have had a bad time, but--with all reverence to Chris's memory--his going out of it, underthe circumstances, is a grief. But it doesn't spell shipwreck. "

"Do you mean that I will marry again?" she asked, in a low tone. 

"Don't you think you will, some time? Some nice young chap who willworship you all the days of his life? That--well, that is what I expectfor you. It's at least possible, you know. "

"Is it what you want for me?"

"Good God!" he burst out, his restraint suddenly gone. "What do you wantme to say? What can I say, except that I want you to be happy? Don't youthink I've gone over it all, over and over again? I'd give my life forthe right to tell you the things I think, but--I haven't that right. Even this little time together is wrong, the way things are. It is allwrong. "

"I'm sorry, Clay. I know. I am just reckless to-day. You know I amreckless. It's my vice. But sometimes--we'd better talk about the mill. "

But he could not talk about the mill just then. They walked along insilence, and after a little he felt her touch his arm. 

"Wouldn't it be better just to have it out?" she asked, wistfully. "Thatwouldn't hurt anybody, would it?"

"I'm afraid, Audrey. "

"I'm not, " she said proudly. "I sometimes think--oh, I think such a lotthese days--that if we talked these things over, I'd recover my--friend. I've lost him now, you see. And I'm so horribly lonely, Clay. "

"Lost him!"

"Lost him, " she repeated. "I've lost my friend, and I haven't gainedanything. It didn't hurt anybody for us to meet now and then, Clay. Youknow that. I wish you would understand, " she added impatiently. "I onlywant to go back to things as they were. I want you to come in now andthen. We used to talk about all sorts of things, and I miss that. Plenty of people come, but that's different. It's only your occasionalcompanionship I want. I don't want you to come and make love to me. "

"You say you have missed the companionship, " he said rather unsteadily. "I wonder if you think I haven't?"

"I know you have, my dear. And that is why I want you to come. To comewithout being afraid that I expect or want anything else. Surely we canmanage that. "

He smiled down at her, rather wryly, at her straight courageous figure, her brave eyes, meeting his so directly. How like her it all was, thestraightforwardness of it, the absence of coquetry. And once again heknew, not only that he loved her with all the depths of him, of hisstrong body and his vigorous mind, but that she was his woman. The onewoman in the world for him. It was as though all his life he had beensearching for her, and he had found her, and it was too late. She knewit, too. It was in her very eyes. 

"I have wanted to come, terribly, " he said finally. And when she heldout her hand to him, he bent down and kissed it. 

"Then that's settled, " she said, in a matter-of-fact tone. "And now I'lltell you about Clare. I'm rather proud of her. "

"Clare?"

The tension had been so great that he had forgotten the blonde girlentirely. 

"Do you remember the night I got a hundred dollars from you? And lateron, that I asked you for work in your mill for the girl I got it for?"

"Do you mean?" He looked at her in surprise. 

"That was the girl. You see, she rather holds onto me. It's awful in away, too. It looks as though I am posing as magnanimous. I'm not, Clay. If I had cared awfully it would have been different. But then, if I hadcared awfully, perhaps it would never have happened. "

"You have nothing to blame yourself for, Audrey. "

"Well, I do, rather. But that's not the point. Sometimes when I am aloneI have wicked thoughts, you know, Clay. I'm reckless, and sometimes Ithink maybe there is only one life, and why not get happiness out ofit. I realize that, but for some little kink in my brain, I might be inClare's position. So I don't turn her out. She's a poor, cheap thing, but--well, she is fond of me. If I had children--it's funny, but Irather mother her! And she's straight now, straight as a string!"

She was sensitive to his every thought, and she knew by the very changein the angle of his head that he was thinking that over and not entirelyapproving. But he said finally:

"You're a big woman, Audrey. "

"But you don't like it!"

"I don't like her troubling you. "

"Troubling me! She doesn't borrow money, you know. Why, she makes moremoney from your plant than I have to live on! And she brings me presentsof flowers and the most awful embroidery, that she does herself. "

"You ought not to know that side of life. "

She laughed a little bitterly. 

"Not know it!" she said. "I've had to know it. I learned it pretty well, too. And don't make any mistake, Clay. " She looked up at him with herclear, understanding gaze. "Being good, decent, with a lot of people isonly the lack of temptation. Only, thank God, there are some who havethe strength to withstand it when it comes. "

And he read in her clear eyes her promise and her understanding; thatthey loved each other, that it was the one big thing in both theirlives, but that between them there would be only the secret innerknowledge of that love. There would be no shipwreck. And for what shegave, she demanded his strength and his promise. It was to what he readin her face, not to her words, that he replied:

"I'll do my very best, Audrey dear. "

He went back to her rooms with her, and she made him tea, while hebuilt the fire in the open fireplace and nursed it tenderly to a healthystrength. Overnursed it, she insisted. They were rather gay, indeed, and the danger-point passed by safely. There was so much to discuss, she pretended. The President's unfortunate phrase of "peace withoutvictory"; the deportation of the Belgians, the recent leak in Washingtonto certain stock-brokers, and more and more imminent, the possibility ofa state of war being recognized by the government. 

"If it comes, " she said, gayly, "I shall go, of course. I shall go toFrance and sing them into battle. My shorthand looks like a music score, as it is. What will you do?"

"I can't let you outshine me, " he said. "And I don't want to think ofyour going over there without me. My dear! My dear!"

She ignored that, and gave him his tea, gravely. 

CHAPTER XXVIII

When Natalie roused from her nap that Sunday afternoon, it was to findMarion gone, and Graham waiting for her in her boudoir. Through the opendoor she could see him pacing back and forward and something in his facemade her vaguely uneasy. She assumed the child-like smile which so oftenpreserved her from the disagreeable. 

"What a sleep I've had, " she said, and yawned prettily. "I'll have oneof your cigarets, darling, and then let's take a walk. "

Graham knew Natalie's idea of a walk, which was three or four blocksalong one of the fashionable avenues, with the car within hailingdistance. At the end of the fourth block she always declared that hershoes pinched, and called the machine. 

"You don't really want to walk, mother. "

"Of course I do, with you. Ring for Madeleine, dear. "

She was uncomfortable. Graham had been very queer lately. He would havelong, quiet spells, and then break out in an uncontrollable irritation, generally at the servants. But Graham did not ring for Madeleine. Helighted a cigaret for Natalie, and standing off, surveyed her. She wasvery pretty. She was prettier than Toots. That pale blue wrapper, orwhatever it was, made her rather exquisite. And Natalie, curled upon her pale rose chaise longue, set to work as deliberately to make aconquest of her son as she had ever done to conquer Rodney Page, or thelong list of Rodney's predecessors. 

"You're growing very handsome, you know, boy, " she said. "Almost toohandsome. A man doesn't need good looks. They're almost a handicap. Lookat your father. "

"They haven't hurt him any, I should say. "

"I don't know. " She reflected, eyeing her cigaret. "He presumes on them, rather. And a good many men never think a handsome man has any brains. "

"Well, he fools them there, too. "

She raised her eyebrows slightly. 

"Tell me about the new plant, Graham. "

"I don't know anything about it yet, " he said bluntly. "And you wouldn'tbe really interested if I did. "

"That's rather disagreeable of you. "

"No; I'm just trying to talk straight, for once. We--you and I--wealways talk around things. I don't know why. "

"You look terribly like your father just now. You are quite savage. "

"That's exactly what I mean, mother. You don't say father is savage. God knows he isn't that. You just say I act like father, and that I amsavage. "

Natalie blew a tiny cloud of cigaret smoke, and watched it for a moment. 

"You sound fearfully involved. But never mind about that. I daresay I'vedone something; I don't know what, but of course I am guilty. "

"Why did you bring Marion here to-day, mother?"

"Well, if you want to know exactly, I met her coming out of church, andit occurred to me that we were having rather a nice luncheon, andthat it would be a pity not to ask some one to come in. It was a niceluncheon, wasn't it?"

"That's why you asked her? For food?"

"Brutally put, but correct. "

"You have been asking her here a lot lately. And yet the last time wediscussed her you said she was fast. That she wanted to marry me for mymoney. That people would laugh if I fell for it. "

"I hardly used those words, did I?"

"For heaven's sake, mother, " he cried, exasperated. "Don't quibble. Let's get down to facts. Does your bringing her here mean that you'vechanged your mind?"

Natalie considered. She was afraid of too quick a surrender lest he growsuspicious. She decided to temporize, with the affectation of franknessthat had once deceived Clayton, and that still, she knew, affectedGraham. 

"I'll tell you exactly, " she said, slowly. "At first I thought it wasjust an infatuation. And--you really are young, Graham, although youlook and act like such a man. But I feel, now that time has gone on andyou still care about her, that after all, your happiness is all thatmatters. "

"Mother!"

But she held up her hand. 

"Remember, I am only speaking for myself. My dearest wish is to make youhappy. You are all I have. But I cannot help you very much. Your fatherlooks at those things differently. He doesn't quite realize that you aregrown up, and have a right to decide some things for yourself. "

"He has moved me up, raised my salary. "

"That's different. You're valuable to him, naturally. I don't mean hedoesn't love you, " she added hastily, as Graham wheeled and stared ather. "Of course he does, in his own way. It's not my way, but then--I'monly a woman and a mother. "

"You think he'll object?"

"I think he must be handled. If you rush at him, and demand the right tolive your own life--"

"It is my life. "

"Precisely. Only he may not see it that way. "

He took a step toward her. 

"Mother, do you really want me to marry Marion?"

"I think you ought to be married. "

"To Marion?"

"To some one you love. "

"Circles again, " he muttered. "You've changed your mind, for somereason. What is it, mother?"

He had an uneasy thought that she might have learned of Anna. There wasthat day, for instance, when his father had walked into the back room. 

Natalie was following a train of thought suggested by her own anxiety. 

"You might be married quietly, " she suggested. "Once it was done, I amsure your father would come around. You are both of age, you know. "

He eyed her then with open-eyed amazement. 

"I'm darned if I understand you, " he burst out. And then, in one of hisquick remorses, "I'm sorry, mother. I'm just puzzled, that's all. Butthat plan's no good, anyhow. Marion won't do it. She will have to bewelcome in the family, or she won't come. "

"She ought to be glad to come any way she can, " Natalie said sharply. And found Graham's eyes on her, studying her. 

"You don't want her. That's plain. But you do want her. That's not soplain. What's the answer, mother?"

And Natalie, with an irritable feeing that she had bungled somehow, gotup and flung away the cigaret. 

"I am trying to give you what you want, " she said pettishly. "That'sclear enough, I should think. "

"There's no other reason?"

"What other reason could there be?"

Dressing to dine at the Hayden's that night, Graham heard Clayton comein and go into his dressing-room. He had an impulse to go over, tiein hand as he was, and put the matter squarely before his father. Themarriage-urge--surely a man would understand that. Even Anna, and hispredicament there. Anything was better than this constant indirectnessof gaining his father's views through his mother. 

Had he done so, things would have been different later. But by continualsuggestion a vision of his father as hard, detached, immovable, had beenbuilt up in his mind. He got as far as the door, hesitated, turned back. 

It was Marion herself who solved the mystery of Natalie's changedattitude, when Graham told of it that night. She sat listening, her eyesslightly narrowed, restlessly turning her engagement ring. 

"Well, at least that's something, " she said, noncommittally. But in herheart she knew, as one designing woman may know another. She knewthat Natalie had made Graham promise not to enlist at once, if war wasdeclared, and now she knew that she was desperately preparing to carryher fear for Graham a step further, even at the cost of having her inthe family. 

She smiled wryly. But there was triumph in the smile, too. She had themnow. The time would come when they would crawl to her to marry Graham, to keep him from going to war. Then she would make her own terms. 

In the meantime the thing was to hold him by every art she knew. 

There was another girl, somewhere. She had been more frightened aboutthat than she cared to admit, even to herself. She must hold him close. 

She used every art she knew. She deliberately inflamed him. And thevicious circle closed in about him, Natalie and Marion and Anna Klein. And to offset them, only Delight Haverford, at evening prayer inSaint Luke's, and voicing a tiny petition for him, that he might walkstraight, that he might find peace, even if that peace should be war. 

CHAPTER XXIX

Herman Klein, watch between forefinger and thumb, climbed heavily toAnna's room. She heard him pause outside the door, and her heart almoststopped beating. She had been asleep, and rousing at his step, she hadfelt under the pillow for her watch to see the time. It was not there. 

She remembered then; she had left it below, on the table. And he wasstanding outside her door. She heard him scratching a match, striking itagainst the panel of her door. For so long as it would take the match toburn out, she heard him there, breathing heavily. Then the knob turned. 

She leaped out of the bed in a panic of fear. The hall, like the room, was dark, and she felt his ponderous body in the doorway, rather thansaw it. 

"You will put on something and come down-stairs, " he said harshly. 

"I will not. " She tried to keep her voice steady. "I've got to work, ifyou haven't. I've got to have my sleep. " Her tone rose, hysterically. "If you think you can stay out half the night, and guzzle beer, and thencome here to get me up, you can think again. "

"You are already up, " he said, in a voice slowed and thickened by rage. "You will come down-stairs. "

He turned away and descended the creaking stairs again. She listened forthe next move, but he made none. She knew then that he was waiting atthe foot of the stairs. 

She was half-maddened with terror by that time, and she ran to thewindow. But it was high. Even if she could have dropped out, and beforeshe could put on enough clothing to escape in, he would be back again, his rage the greater for the delay. She slipped into a kimono, and herknees giving way under her she went down the stairs. Herman was waiting. He moved under the lamp, and she saw that he held the watch, dangling. 

"Now!" he said. "Where you got this? Tell me. "

"I've told you how I got it. "

"That was a lie. "

So--Rudolph had told him!

"I like that!" she blustered, trying to gain time. "I guess it's timethey gave me something--I've worked hard enough. They gave them to allthe girls. "

"That is a lie also. "

"I like that. Telling me I'm lying. You ask Mr. Graham Spencer. He'lltell you. "

"If that is true, why do you shake so?"

"You scare me, father. " She burst into frightened tears. "I don't knowwhat's got into you. I do my best. I give you all I make. I've kept thishouse going, and"---she gained a little courage--"I've had darned littlethanks for it. "

"You think I believe the mill gave five thousand dollars in watches lastChristmas? To-morrow I go, with this to Mr. Clayton Spencer, not to thatdegenerate son of his, and I ask him. Then I shall know. "

He turned, as if about to leave her, but the alternative he offered herwas too terrible. 

"Father!" she said. "I'll tell you the truth. I bought it myself. "

"With what money?"

"I had a raise. I didn't tell you. I had a raise of five dollars a week. I'm paying for it myself. Honest to heaven, that's right, father. "

"So--you have had a raise, and you have not told me?"

"I give all the rest to you. What do I get out of all my hard work? Justa place to live. No clothes. No fun. No anything. All the other girlshave a good time now and then, but I'm just like a prisoner. You takeall I earn, and I get--the devil. "

Her voice rose to a terrified squeal. Behind her she heard the slovenlyservant creaking down the stairs. As Herman moved toward her shescreamed. 

"Katie!" she called. "Quick. Help!"

But Herman had caught her by the shoulder and was dragging her toward acorner, where there hung a leather strap. 

Katie, peering round the door of the enclosed staircase, saw him raisethe strap, and Anna's white face upraised piteously. 

"For God's sake, father. "

The strap descended. Even after Katie had rushed up the stairs andlocked herself in the room, she could hear, above Anna's cries, the thudof the strap, relentless, terrible, lusty with cruelty. 

Herman went to church the next morning. Lying in her bed, too sore andbruised to move, Anna heard him carefully polishing his boots on theside porch, heard him throw away the water after he had shaved, heard atlast the slam of the gate as he started, upright in his Sunday clothes, for church. 

Only when he had reached the end of the street, and Katie could see himpicking his way down the blackened hill, did she venture up with a cupof coffee. Anna had to unlock her door to admit her, to remove a furtherbarricade of chairs. When Katie saw her she almost dropped the cup. 

"You poor little rat, " she said compassionately. "Gee! He was crazy. Inever saw such a face. Gee!"

Anna said nothing. She dropped on the side of the bed and took thecoffee, drinking gingerly through a lip swollen and cut. 

"I'm going to leave, " Katie went on. "It'll be my time next. If he triesany tricks on me I'll have the law on him. He's a beast; that's what heis. "

"Katie, " Anna said, "if I leave can you get my clothes to me? I'll carryall I can. "

"He'd take the strap to me. "

"Well, if you're leaving anyhow, you can put some of my things in yourtrunk. "

"Good and right you are to get out, " Katie agreed. "Sure I'll do it. Where do you think you'll go?"

"I thought last night I'd jump in the river. I've changed my mind, though. I'll pay him back, and not the way he expects. "

"Give it to him good, " assented Katie. "I'd have liked to slip some ofthat Paris green of his in his coffee this morning. And now he's off forchurch, the old hypocrite!"

To Katie's curious inquiries as to the cause of the beating Anna was nowtoo committal. 

"I held out some money on him, " was all she said. 

Katie regarded her with a mixture of awe and admiration. 

"You've got your nerve, " she said. "I wonder he didn't kill you. What'syours is his and what's his is his own!"

But Anna could not leave that morning. She lay in her bed, coldcompresses on her swollen face and shoulders, a bruised and brokenthing, planning hideous reprisals. Herman made no inquiry for her. Hewent stolidly about the day's work, carried in firewood and coal fromthe shed, inspected the garden with a view to early planting, and atehugely of the mid-day dinner. 

In the afternoon Rudolph came. 

"Where's Anna?" he asked briskly. 

"She is in her room. She is not well. "

If Rudolph suspected anything, it was only that Anna was sulking. Butlater on he had reason to believe that there trouble. Out of a clear skyHerman said:

"She has had a raise. " Anna was "she" to him. 

"Since when?" Rudolph asked with interest. 

"I know nothing. She has not given it to me. She has been buying herselfa watch. "

"So!" Rudolph's tone was wary. 

"She will buy herself no more watches, " said Herman, with an air offinality. 

Rudolph hesitated. The organization wanted Herman; he had had greatinfluence with the millworkers. Through him many things would bepossible. The Spencers trusted him, too. At any time Rudolph knew theywould be glad to reinstate him, and once inside the plant, there was nolimit to the mischief he could do. But Herman was too valuable to risk. Suppose he was told now about Graham Spencer and Anna, and beat the girland was jailed for it? Besides, ugly as Rudolph's suspicions were, theywere as yet only suspicions. He decided to wait until he could bringHerman proof of Graham Spencer's relations with Anna. When that timecame he knew Herman. He would be clay for the potter. He, Rudolph, intended to be the potter. 

Katie had an afternoon off that Sunday. When she came back that night, Herman, weary from the late hours of Saturday, was already snoring inhis bed. Anna met Katie at her door and drew her in. 

"I've found a nice room, " Katie whispered. "Here's the address writtendown. The street cars go past it. Three dollars a week. Are you ready?"

Anna was ready, even to her hat. Over it she placed a dark veil, forshe was badly disfigured. Then, with Katie crying quietly, she left thehouse. In the flare from the Spencer furnaces Katie watched until thegirl reappeared on the twisting street below which still followed theold path--that path where Herman, years ago, had climbed through thefirst spring wild flowers to the cottage on the hill. 

Graham was uncomfortable the next morning on his way to the mill. Anna'sface had haunted him. But out of all his confusion one thing stood outwith distinctness. If he was to be allowed to marry Marion, he must haveno other entanglement. He would go to her clean and clear. 

So he went to the office, armed toward Anna with a hardness he was farfrom feeling. 

"Poor little kid!" he reflected on the way down. "Rotten luck, allround. "

He did not for a moment believe that it would be a lasting grief. Heknew that sort of girl, he reflected, out of his vast experience oftwenty-two. They were sentimental, but they loved and forgot easily. He hoped she would forget him; but even with that, there was a vagueresentment that she should do so. 

"She'll marry some mill-hand, " he reflected, "and wear a boudoir cap, and have a lot of children who need their noses wiped. "

But he was uncomfortable. 

Anna was not in her office. Her coat and hat were not there. He wassurprised, somewhat relieved. It was out of his hands, then; she hadgone somewhere else to work. Well, she was a good stenographer. Somebodywas having a piece of luck. 

Clayton, finding him short-handed, sent Joey over to help him pack uphis office belongings, the fittings of his desk, his personal papers, the Japanese prints and rugs Natalie had sent after her single visitto the boy's new working quarters. And, when Graham came back fromluncheon, Joey had a message for him. 

"Telephone call for you, Mr. Spencer. "

"What was it?"

"Lady called up, from a pay phone. She left her number and said she'dwait. " Joey lowered his voice confidentially. "Sounded like Miss Klein, "he volunteered. 

He was extremely resentful when Graham sent him away on an errand. AndGraham himself frowned as he called the number on the pad. It was likea girl, this breaking off clean and then telephoning, instead of lettingthe thing go, once and for all. But his face changed as he heard Anna'sbrief story over the wire. 

"Of course I'll come, " he said. "I'm pretty busy, but I can steal ahalf-hour. Don't you worry. We'll fix it up some way. "

He was more concerned than deeply anxious when he rang off. It wasunfortunate, that was all. And the father was a German swine, and oughtto be beaten himself. To think that his Christmas gift had brought herto such a pass! A leather strap! God!

He was vaguely uneasy, however. He had a sense of a situation beingforced on him. He knew, too, that Clayton was waiting for him at the newplant. But Anna's trouble, absurd as its cause seemed to him, was hisresponsibility. 

It ceased to be absurd, however, when he saw her discolored features. Itwould be some time before she could even look for another situation. Herface was a swollen mask, and since such attraction as she had had forhim had been due to a sort of evanescent prettiness of youth, he felt arepulsion that he tried his best to conceal. 

"You poor little thing!" he said. "He's a brute. I'd like--" He clenchedhis fists. "Well, I got you into it. I'm certainly going to see youthrough. "

She had lowered her veil quickly, and he felt easier. The telephonebooth was in the corner of a quiet hotel, and they were alone. He pattedher shoulder. 

"I'll see you through, " he repeated. "Don't you worry about anything. Just lie low. "

"See me through? How?"

"I can give you money; that's the least I can do. Until you are able towork again. " And as she drew away, "We'll call it a loan, if that makesyou feel better. You haven't anything, have you?"

"He has everything I've earned. . I've never had a penny except carfare. "

"Poor little girl!" he said again. 

She was still weak, he saw, and he led her into the deserted cafe. He took a highball himself, not because he wanted it, but because sherefused to drink, at first. He had never before had a drink in themorning, and he felt a warm and reckless glow to his very finger-tips. Bending toward her, while the waiter's back was turned, he kissed hermarred and swollen cheek. 

"To think I have brought you all this trouble!"

"You mustn't blame yourself. "

"I do. But I'll make it up to you, Anna. You don't hate me for it, doyou?"

"Hate you! You know better than that. "

"I'll come round to take you out now and then, in the evenings. I don'twant you to sit alone in that forsaken boarding-house and mope. " Hedrew out a bill-fold, and extracted some notes. "Don't be silly, "he protested, as she drew back. "It's the only way I can get back myself-respect. You owe it to me to let me do it. "

She was not hard to persuade. Anything was better than going back to thecottage on the hill, and to that heavy brooding figure, and the strap onthe wall. But the taking of the money marked a new epoch in the girl'sinfatuation. It bought her. She did not know it, nor did he. Buthitherto she had been her own, earning her own livelihood. What she gaveof love, of small caresses and intimacies, had been free gifts. 

From that time she was his creature. In her creed, which was the creedof the girls on the hill, one did not receive without giving. She wouldpay him back, but all that she had to give was herself. 

"You'll come to see me, too. Won't you?"

The tingling was very noticeable now. He felt warm, and young, and very, very strong. 

"Of course I'll come to see you, " he said, recklessly. "You take alittle time off--you've worked hard--and we'll play round together. "

She bent down, unexpectedly, and put her bruised cheek against his hand, as it lay on the table. 

"I love you dreadfully, " she whispered. 

CHAPTER XXX

February and March were peaceful months, on the surface. Washington wastaking stock quietly of national resources and watching for Germany'snext move. The winter impasse in Europe gave way to the first fightingof spring, raids and sorties mostly, since the ground was still tooheavy for the advancement of artillery. On the high seas the reign ofterror was in full swing, and little tragic echoes of the world dramabegan again to come by cable across the Atlantic. Some of Graham'sfriends, like poor Chris, found the end of the path of glory. The tallyoung Canadian Highlander died before Peronne in March. Denis Nolan'snephew was killed in the Irish Fusileers. 

One day Clayton came home to find a white-faced Buckham taking hisovercoat in the hall, and to learn that he had lost a young brother. 

Clayton was uncomfortable at dinner that night. He wondered whatBuckham thought of them, sitting there around the opulent table, in thatluxurious room. Did he resent it? After dinner he asked him if he caredto take a few days off, but the old butler shook his head. 

"I'm glad to have my work to keep me busy, sir, " he said. "And anyhow, in England, it's considered best to go on, quite as though nothing hadhappened. It's better for the troops, sir. "

There was a new softness and tolerance in Clayton that early spring. Hehad mellowed, somehow, a mellowing that had nothing to do with his newprosperity. In past times he had wondered how he would stand financialsuccess if it ever came. He had felt fairly sure he could stand theother thing. But success--Now he found that it only increased his senseof responsibility. He was, outside of the war situation, as nearly happyas he had been in years. Natalie's petulant moods, when they came, no longer annoyed him. He was supported, had he only known it, by thestrong inner life he was living, a life that centered about his weeklymeetings with Audrey. 

Audrey gave him courage to go on. He left their comradely hours togetherbetter and stronger. All the week centered about that one hour, outof seven days, when he stood on her hearth-rug, or lay back in a deepchair, listening or talking--such talk as Natalie might have heardwithout resentment. 

Some times he felt that that one hour was all he wanted; it carried sofar, helped so greatly. He was so boyishly content in it. And then shewould make a gesture, or there would be, for a second, a deeper notein her voice, and the mad instinct to catch her to him was almostoverwhelming. 

Some times he wondered if she were not very lonely, not knowing thatshe, too, lived for days on that one hour. She was not going out, because of Chris's death, and he knew there were long hours when she satalone, struggling determinedly with the socks she was knitting. 

Only once did they tread on dangerous ground, and that was on herbirthday. He stopped in a jeweler's on his way up-town and brought her ablack pearl on a thin almost invisible chain, only to have her refuse totake it. 

"I can't Clay!"

"Why not?"

"It's too valuable. I can't take valuable presents from men. "

"It's value hasn't anything to do with it. "

"I'm not wearing jewelry, anyhow. "

"Audrey, " he said gravely, "it isn't the pearl. It isn't its value. That's absurd. Don't you understand that I would like to think that youhave something I have given you?"

When she sat still, thinking over what he had said, he slipped the chainaround her neck and clasped it. Then he stooped down, very gravely, andkissed her. 

"For my silent partner!" he said. 

In all those weeks, that was the only time he had kissed her. He knewquite well the edge of the gulf they stood on, and he was determined notto put the burden of denial on her. He felt a real contempt for men wholeft the strength of refusal to a woman, who pleaded, knowing thatthe woman's strength would save them from themselves, and that if sheweakened, the responsibility was hers. 

So he fed on the husks of love, and was, if not happy, happier. 

Graham, too, was getting on better. For one thing, Anna Klein had beenill. She lay in her boarding-house, frightened at every step on thestairs, and slowly recovered from a low fever. Graham had not seen her, but he sent her money for a doctor, for medicines, for her room rent, enclosed in brief letters, purely friendly and interested. But she keptthem under her pillow and devoured them with feverish eyes. 

But something had gone out of life for Graham. Not Anna. Natalie, watching him closely, wondered what it was. He had been strange anddistant with her ever since that tall boy in kilts had been there. Hewas studiously polite and attentive to her, rose when she entered a roomand remained standing until she was seated, brought her the book shehad forgotten, lighted her occasional cigaret, kissed her morning andevening. But he no longer came into her dressing-room for that hourbefore dinner when Natalie, in dressing-gown and slippers, had closedthe door to Clayton's room and had kept him for herself. 

She was jealous of Clayton those days. Some times she found the boy'seyes fixed on his father, with admiration and something more. She wasjealous of the things they had in common, of the days at the mill, ofthe bits of discussion after dinner, when Clayton sat back with hiscigar, and Graham voiced, as new discoveries, things about the work thatClayton had realized for years. 

He always listened gravely, with no hint of patronage. But Natalie wouldbreak in now and then, impatient of a conversation that excluded her. 

"Your father knows all these things, Graham, " she said once. "You talkas though you'd just discovered the mill, like Columbus discoveringAmerica. "

"Not at all, " Clayton said, hastily. "He has a new viewpoint. I amgreatly interested. Go on, Graham. "

But the boy's enthusiasm had died. He grew self-conscious, apologetic. And Clayton felt a resentment that was close to despair. 

The second of April fell on a Saturday. Congress, having ended thesession the fourth of March, had been hastily reconvened, and on theevening of that day, Saturday, at half past eight, the President wentbefore the two Houses in joint session. 

Much to Clayton's disgust, he found on returning home that they weredining out. 

"Only at the Mackenzies. It's not a party, " Natalie said. As usual, shewas before the dressing-table, and she spoke to his reflection inthe mirror. "I should think you could do that, without looking like athunder-cloud. Goodness knows we've been quiet enough this Lent. "

"You know Congress has been re-convened?"

"I don't know why that should interfere. "

"It's rather a serious time. " He tried very hard to speak pleasantly. Her engrossment in her own reflection irritated him, so he did not lookat her. "But of course I'll go. "

"Every time is a serious time with you lately, " she flung after him. Hertone was not disagreeable. She was merely restating an old grievance. Afew moments later he heard her calling through the open door. 

"I got some wonderful old rugs to-day, Clay. "

"Yes?"

"You'll scream when you pay for them. "

"I've lost my voice screaming, my dear. "

"You'll love these. They have the softest colors, dead rose, and fadedblue, and old copper tones. "

"I'm very glad you're pleased. "

She was in high good humor when they started. Clayton, trying to meether conversational demands found himself wondering if the significanceof what was to happen in Washington that night had struck home to her. If it had, and she could still be cheerful, then it was because she hadforced a promise from Graham. 

He made his decision then; to force her to release the boy from anypromise; to allow him his own choice. But he felt with increasinganxiety that some of Natalie's weakness of character had descended toGraham, that in him, as in Natalie, perhaps obstinacy was what he hopedwas strength. He wondered listening to her, what it would be to havebeside him that night some strong and quiet woman, to whom he couldcarry his problems, his perplexities. Some one to sit, hand in his, andset him right as such a woman could, on many things. 

And for a moment, he pictured Audrey. Audrey, his wife, driving with himin their car, to whatever the evening might hold. And after it wasall over, going back with her, away from all the chatter that meant solittle, to the home that shut them in together. 

He was very gentle to Natalie that night. 

Natalie had been right. It was a small and informal group, gatheredtogether hastily to discuss the emergency; only Denis Nolan, theMackenzies, Clayton and Natalie, and Audrey. 

"We brought her out of her shell, " said Terry, genially, "because thecountry is going to make history to-night. The sort of history Audreyhas been shouting for for months. "

The little party was very grave. Yet, of them all, only the Spencerswould be directly affected. The Mackenzies had no children. 

"Button, my secretary, " Terry announced, "is in Washington. He is tocall me here when the message is finished. "

"Isn't it possible, " said Natalie, recalling a headline from the eveningpaper, "that the House may cause an indefinite delay?"

And, as usual, Clayton wondered at the adroitness with which, in thetalk that followed, she escaped detection. 

They sat long at the table, rather as though they clung together. AndNolan insisted on figuring the cost of war in money. 

"Queer thing, " he said. "In ancient times the cost of war fell almostentirely on the poor. But it's the rich who will pay for this war. Alltaxation is directed primarily against the rich. "

"The poor pay in blood, " said Audrey, rather sharply. "They give theirlives, and that is all they have. "

"Rich and poor are going to do that, now, " old Terry broke in. "Fightagainst it all you like, you members of the privileged class, the draftis coming. This is every man's war. "

But Clayton Spencer was watching Natalie. She had paled and wasfingering her liqueur-glass absently. Behind her lowered eyelids hesurmised that again she was planning. But what? Then it came to him, like a flash. Old Terry had said the draft would exempt married men. Shemeant to marry Graham to a girl she detested, to save him from danger. 

Through it all, however, and in spite of his anger and apprehension, he was sorry for her. Sorry for her craven spirit. Sorry even with anunderstanding that came from his own fears. Sorry for her, that shehad remained an essential child in a time that would tax the utmostmaturity. She was a child. Even her selfishness was the selfishness ofa spoiled child. She craved things, and the spirit, the essence of life, escaped her. 

And beside him was Audrey, valiant-eyed, courageous, honest. Natalie andAudrey! Some time during the evening his thoughts took this form: thatthere were two sorts of people in the world: those who seized their ownhappiness, at any cost; and those who saw the promised land from a farhill, and having seen it, turned back. 

CHAPTER XXXI

Graham was waiting in Clayton's dressing-room when he went up-stairs. Through the closed door they could hear Natalie's sleepy and ratherfretful orders to her maid. Graham rose when he entered, and threw awayhis cigaret. 

"I guess it has come, father. "

"It looks like it. "

A great wave of tenderness for the boy flooded over him. That tall, straight body, cast in his own mold, but young, only ready to live, thatwas to be cast into the crucible of war, to come out--God alone knewhow. And not his boy only, but millions of other boys. Yet--better tobreak the body than ruin the soul. 

"How is mother taking it?"

Natalie's voice came through the door. She was insisting that the housebe kept quiet the next morning. She wanted to sleep late. Clayton caughtthe boy's eyes on him, and a half smile on his face. 

"Does she know?"

"Yes. "

"She isn't taking it very hard, is she?" Then his voice changed. "Iwish you'd talk to her, father. She's--well, she's got me! You see, Ipromised her not to go in without her consent. "

"When did you do that?"

"The night we broke with Germany in February. I was a fool, but she wascrying, and I didn't know what else to do. And"--there was a ring ofdesperation in his voice--"she's holding me to it. I've been to her overand over again. "

"And you want to go?"

"Want to go! I've got to go. "

He broke out then into a wild appeal. He wanted to get away. He wasmaking a mess of all sorts of things. He wasn't any good. He would tryto make good in the army. Maybe it was only the adventure he wanted--hedidn't know. He hadn't gone into that. He hated the Germans. He wantedone chance at them, anyhow. They were beasts. 

Clayton, listening, was amazed at the depth of feeling and anger in hisvoice. 

"I'll talk to your mother, " he agreed, when the boy's passion had spentitself. "I think she will release you. " But he was less certain than hepretended to be. He remembered Natalie's drooping eyelids that nightat dinner. She might absolve him from the promise, but there were otherways of holding him back than promises. 

"Perhaps we would better go into the situation thoroughly, " hesuggested. "I have rather understood, lately, that you--what aboutMarion Hayden, Graham?"

"I'm engaged to her. "

There was rather a long pause. Clayton's face was expressionless. 

"Since when?"

"Last fall, sir. "

"Does your mother know?"

"I told her, yes. " He looked up quickly. "I didn't tell you. I knew youdisliked her, and mother said?" He checked himself. "Marion wanted towait. She wanted to be welcome when she came into the family. "

"I don't so much dislike her as I--disapprove of her. "

"That's rather worse, isn't it?"

Clayton was tired. His very spirit was tired. He sat down in his bigchair by the fire. 

"She is older than you are, you know. "

"I don't see what that has to do with it, father. "

In Clayton's defense was his own situation. He did not want the boy torepeat his mistakes, to marry the wrong woman, and then find, toolate, the right one. During the impassioned appeal that followed he wasdoggedly determined to prevent that. Perhaps he lost the urgency inthe boy's voice. Perhaps in his new conviction that the passions of theforties were the only real ones, he took too little count of the urge ofyouth. 

He roused himself. 

"You think you are really in love with her?"

"I want her. I know that. "

"That's different. That's--you are too young to know what you want. "

"I ought to be married. It would settle me. I'm sick of batting round. "

"You want to marry before you enter the army?"

"Yes. "

"Do you think for a moment that your wife will be willing to let yougo?"

Graham straightened himself. 

"She would have to let me go. "

And in sheer despair, Clayton played his last card. Played it, andregretted it bitterly a moment later. 

"We must get this straight, Graham. It's not a question of your enteringthe army or not doing it. It's a question of your happiness. Marriage isa matter of a life-time. It's got to be based on something more than--"he hesitated. "And your mother?"

"Please go on. "

"You have just said that your mother does not want you to go into thearmy. Has it occurred to you she would even see you married to a girlshe detests, to keep you at home?"

Graham's face hardened. 

"So;" he said, heavily, "Marion wants me for the money she thinks I'mgoing to have, and mother wants me to marry to keep me safe! By God, it's a dirty world, isn't it?"

Suddenly he was gone, and Clayton, following uneasily to the doorway, heard a slam below. When, some hours later, Graham had not come back, he fell into the heavy sleep that follows anxiety and brings no rest. Inthe morning he found that Graham had gone back to the garage and takenhis car, and that he had not returned. 

Afterward Clayton was to look back and to remember with surprise howcompletely the war crisis had found him absorbed in his own small group. But perhaps in the back of every man's mind war was always, first ofall, a thing of his own human contacts. It was only when those werecleared up that he saw the bigger problem. The smaller questions loomedso close as to obscure the larger vision. 

He went out into the country the next day, a cold Sunday, going afoot, his head down against the wind, and walked for miles. He looked haggardand tired when he came back, but his quiet face held a new resolve. War had come at last. He would put behind him the selfish craving forhappiness, forget himself. He would not make money out of the nation'snecessity. He would put Audrey out of his mind, if not out of his heart. He would try to rebuild his house of life along new and better lines. Perhaps he could bring Natalie to see things as he saw them, as theywere, not as she wanted them to be. 

Some times it took great crises to bring out women. Child-bearing didit, often. Urgent need did it, too. But after all the real test was war. The big woman met it squarely, took her part of the burden; the smallwoman weakened, went down under it, found it a grievance rather than agrief. 

He did not notice Graham's car when it passed him, outside the citylimits, or see Anna Klein's startled eyes as it flashed by. 

Graham did not come in until evening. At ten o'clock Clayton found thesecond man carrying up-stairs a tray containing whisky and soda, andbefore he slept he heard a tap at Graham's door across the hall, andsurmised that he had rung for another. Later still he heard Nataliecross the hall, and rather loud and angry voices. He considered, ironically, that a day which had found a part of the nation on its kneesfound in his own house only dissension and bitterness. 

In the morning, at the office, Joey announced a soldier to see him, andadded, with his customary nonchalance:

"We'll be having a lot of them around now, I expect. "

Clayton, glancing up from the visitor's slip in his hand, surprisedsomething wistful in the boy's eyes. 

"Want to go, do you?"

"Give my neck to go--sir. " He always added the "sir, " when he rememberedit, with the air of throwing a sop to a convention he despised. 

"You may yet, you know. This thing is going to last a while. Send himin, Joey. "

He had grown attached to this lad of the streets. He found in hisloyalty a thing he could not buy. 

Jackson was his caller. Clayton, who had been rather more familiar withhis back in its gray livery than with any other aspect of him, found himstrange and impressive in khaki. 

"I'm sorry I couldn't get here sooner, Mr. Spencer, " he explained. "I'vebeen down on the border. Yuma. I just got a short leave, and came backto see my family. "

He stood very erect, a bronzed and military figure. Suddenly it seemedstrange to Clayton Spencer that this man before him had only a fewmonths before opened his automobile door for him, and stood waiting witha rug to spread over his knees. He got up and shook hands. 

"You look like a different man, Jackson. "

"Well, at least I feel like a man. "

"Sit down, " he said. And again it occurred to him that never before hadhe asked Jackson to sit down in his presence. It was wrong, somehow. Thewhole class system was absurd. Maybe war would change that, too. It wasdoing many queer things, already. 

He had sent for Jackson, but he did not at once approach the reason. He sat back, while Jackson talked of the border and Joey slipped in andpretended to sharpen lead pencils. 

Clayton's eyes wandered to the window. Outside in the yard were othermen, now employees of his, who would soon be in khaki. Out of everygroup there in a short time some would be gone, and of those who wouldgo a certain number would never come back. That was what war was; oneday a group of men, laboring with their hands or their brains, that somelittle home might live; that they might go back at evening to that home, and there rest for the next day's toil. And the next, gone. Every manout there in the yard was loved by some one. To a certain number of themthis day meant death, or wounding. It meant separation, and suffering, and struggle. 

And all over the country there were such groups. 

The roar of the plant came in through the open window. A freight car wasbeing loaded with finished shells. As fast as it was filled, anothercar was shunted along the spur to take its place. Over in Germany, inhundreds of similar plants, similar shells were being hurried to thebattle line, to be hurled against the new army that was soon to crossthe seas. 

All those men, and back of every man, a woman. 

Jackson had stopped. Joey was regarding him with stealthy admiration, and holding his breast bone very high. Already in his mind Joey was asoldier. 

"You did not say in your note why you wanted to see me, Mr. Spencer. "

He roused himself with a visible effort. 

"I sent for you, yes, " he said. "I sent--I'll tell you why I sent foryou, Jackson. I've been meaning to do it for several weeks. Now thatthis has come I'm more than glad I did so. You can't keep your family onwhat you are getting. That's certain. "

"My wife is going to help me, sir. The boy will soon be weaned. Then sheintends to get a position. She was a milliner when we were married. "

"But--Great Scott! She ought not to leave a child as young as that. "

Jackson smiled. 

"She's going to fix that, all right. She wants to do it. And we're allright so far I had saved a little. "

Then there were women like that! Women who would not only let their mengo to war, but who would leave their homes and enter the struggle forbread, to help them do it. 

"She says it's the right thing, " volunteered Jackson, proudly. Women whofelt that a man going into the service was a right thing. Women who sawwar as a duty to be done, not a wild adventure for the adventurous. 

"You ought to be very proud of her, " he said slowly. "There are not manylike that. "

"Well, " Jackson said, apologetically, "they'll come round, sir. Some ofthem kind of hate the idea, just at first. But I look to see a good manydoing what my wife's doing. "

Clayton wondered grimly what Jackson would think if he knew that at thatmoment he was passionately envious of him, of his uniform, of the youththat permitted him to wear that uniform, of his bronzed skin, of hiswife, of his pride in that wife. 

"You're a lucky chap, Jackson, " he said. "I sent for you because Iwanted to say that, as long as you are in the national service, I shallfeel that you are on a vacation"--he smiled at the word--"on pay. Underthose circumstances, I owe you quite a little money. "

Jackson was too overwhelmed to reply at once. 

"As a matter of fad, " Clayton went on, "it's a national move, in a way. You don't owe any gratitude. We need our babies, you see. More than wedo hats! If this war goes on, we shall need a good many boy babies. "

And his own words suddenly crystallized the terror that was in him. Itwas the boys who would go; boys who whistled in the morning; boys whodreamed in the spring, long dreams of romance and of love. 

Boys. Not men like himself, with their hopes and dreams behind them. Notmen who had lived enough to know that only their early dreams were real. Not men, who, having lived, knew the vast disillusion of living and wereready to die. 

It was only after Jackson had gone that he saw the fallacy of his ownreasoning. If to live were disappointment, then to die, still dreamingthe great dream, was not wholly evil. He found himself saying, "To earn some honorable advancement for one's soul. "

Deep down in him, overlaid with years of worldliness, there was a beliefin a life after death. He looked out the window at the little, changinggroup. In each man out there there was something that would live on, after he had shed that sweating, often dirty, always weary, sometimesmalformed shell that was the body. And then the thing that would countwould be not how he had lived but what he had done. 

This war was a big thing. It was the biggest thing in all the historyof the world. There might be, perhaps, some special heaven for those whohad given themselves to it, some particular honorable advancement fortheir souls. Already he saw Jackson as one apart, a man dedicated. 

Then he knew that all his thinking was really centered about his boy. Hewanted Graham to go. But in giving him he was giving him to the chanceof death. Then he must hold to his belief in eternity. He must feelthat, or the thing would be unbearable. For the first time in his lifehe gave conscious thought to Natalie's religious belief. She believed inthose things. She must. She sat devoutly through the long service; sheslipped, with a little rustle of soft silk, so easily to her knees. Perhaps, if he went to her with that?

CHAPTER XXXII

For a week after Anna's escape Herman Klein had sat alone and brooded. Entirely alone now, for following a stormy scene on his discovery ofAnna's disappearance, Katie had gone too. 

"I don't know where she is, " she had said, angrily, "and if I did know Iwouldn't tell you. If I was her I'd have the law on you. Don't you lookat that strap. You lay a hand on me and I'll kill you. If you think I'mafraid of you, you can think again. "

"She is my daughter, and not yet of age, " Herman said heavily. "You tellher for me that she comes back, or I go and bring her. "

"Yah!" Katie jeered. "You try it! She's got marks on her that'll jailyou. " And on his failure to reply her courage mounted. "This ain'tGermany, you know. They know how to treat women over here. And you askme"--her voice rose--"and I'll just say that there's queer comings andgoings here with that Rudolph. I've heard him say some things that'lllock him up good and tight. "

For all his rage, Teutonic caution warned him not to lay hands on thegirl. But his anger against her almost strangled him. Indeed, when shecame down stairs, dragging her heavy suitcase, he took a step or twotoward her, with his fists clenched. She stopped, terrified. 

"You old bully!" she said, between white lips. "You touch me, and I'llscream till I bring in every neighbor in the block. There's a goodlamp-post outside that's just waiting for your sort of German. "

He had refused to pay her for the last week, also. But that she knewwell enough was because he was out of money. As fast as Anna's salaryhad come in, he had taken out of it the small allowance that was tocover the week's expenses, and had banked the remainder. But Anna hadcarried her last pay envelope away with her, and added to his anger ather going was his fear that he would have to draw on his savings. 

With Katie gone, he set heavily about preparing his Sunday dinner. Longyears of service done for him, however, had made him clumsy. He cooked awretched meal, and then, leaving the dishes as they were, he sat by thefire and brooded. When Rudolph came in, later, he found him there, inhis stocking-feet, a morose and untidy figure. 

Rudolph's reception of the news roused him, however. He looked up, afterthe telling, to find the younger man standing over him and staring downat him with blood-shot eyes. 

"You beat her!" he was saying. "What with?"

"What does that matter--She had bought herself a watch--"

"What did you beat her with?" Rudolph was licking his lips. Receiving noreply, he called "Katie!"

"Katie has gone. "

"Maybe you beat her, too. "

"She wasn't my daughter. "

"No by God! You wouldn't dare to touch her. She didn't belong to you. You--"

"Get out, " said Herman, somberly. He stood up menacingly. "You go, now. "

Rudolph hesitated. Then he laughed. 

"All right, old top, " he said, in a conciliatory tone. "No offensemeant. I lost my temper. "

He picked up the empty coal-scuffle, and went out into the shed wherethe coal was kept. He needed a minute to think. Besides, he alwaysbrought in coal when he was there. In the shed, however, he put down thescuttle and stood still. 

"The old devil!" he muttered. 

But his rage for Anna was followed by rage against her. Where was sheto-night? Did Graham Spencer know where she was? And if he did, whatthen? Were they at that moment somewhere together? Hidden away, the twoof them? The conviction that they were together grew on him, and with ita frenzy that was almost madness. He left the coal scuttle in the shed, and went out into the air. For a half hour he stood there, looking downtoward the Spencer furnace, sending up, now red, now violet bursts offlame. 

He was angry enough, jealous enough. But he was quick, too, to see thatthat particular lump of potters' clay which was Herman Klein was readyfor the wheel. Even while he was cursing the girl his cunning mind wasalready plotting, revenge for the Spencers, self-aggrandizement amonghis fellows for himself. His inordinate conceit, wounded by Anna'sdefection, found comfort in the early prospect of putting over a bigthing. He carried the coal in, to find Herman gloomily clearing hisuntidy table. For a moment they worked in silence, Rudolph at the stove, Herman at the sink. 

Then Rudolph washed his hands under the faucet and faced the older man. "How do you know she bought herself that watch, " he demanded. 

Herman eyed him. 

"Perhaps you gave it to her!" Something like suspicion of Rudolph creptinto his eyes. 

"Me? A hundred-dollar watch!"

"How do you know it cost a hundred dollars?"

"I saw it. She tried that story on me, too. But I was too smart for her. I went to the store and asked. A hundred bucks!"

Herman's lips drew back over his teeth. 

"You knew it, eh? And you did not tell me?"

"It wasn't my funeral, " said Rudolph coolly. "If you wanted to believeshe bought it herself?"

"If she bought it herself!" Rudolph's shoulder was caught in an irongrip. "You will tell me what you mean. "

"Well, I ask you, do you think she'd spend that much on a watch?Anyhow, the installment story doesn't go. That place doesn't sell oninstallments. "

"Who is there would buy her such a watch?" Herman's voice was thick. 

"How about Graham Spencer? She's been pretty thick with him. "

"How you mean--thick?"

Rudolph shrugged his shoulders. 

"I don't mean anything. But he's taken her out in his car. And theSpencers think there's nothing can't be bought with money. "

Herman put down the dish-cloth and commenced to draw down his shirtsleeves. 

"Where you going?" Rudolph demanded uneasily. 

"I go to the Spencers!"

"Listen!" Rudolph said, excitedly. "Don't you do it; not yet. You gotto get him first. We don't know anything; we don't even know he gave herthat watch. We've got to find her, don't you see? And then, we've got tolearn if he's going there--wherever she is. "

"I shall bring her back, " Herman said, stubbornly. "I shall bring herback, and I shall kill her. "

"And get strung up yourself! Now listen?" he argued. "You leave this tome. I'll find her. I've got a friend, a city detective, and he'll helpme, see? We'll get her back, all right. Only you've got to keep yourhands off her. It's the Spencers that have got to pay. "

Herman went back to the sink, slowly. 

"That is right. It is the Spencers, " he muttered. 

Rudolph went out. Late in the evening he came back, with the news thatthe search was on. And, knowing Herman's pride, he assured him that thehill need never learn of Anna's flight, and if any inquiries came headvised him to say the girl was sick. 

In Rudolph's twisted mind it was not so much Anna's delinquency thatenraged him. The hill had its own ideas of morality. But he was fiercelyjealous, with that class-jealousy which was the fundamental actuatingmotive of his life. He never for a moment doubted that she had gone toGraham. 

And, sitting by the fire in the little house, old Herman's untidy headshrunk on his shoulders, Rudolph almost forgot Anna in plotting to usethis new pawn across the hearth from him in his game of destruction. 

By the end of the week, however, there was no news of Anna. She had notreturned to the mill. Rudolph's friend on the detective force had foundno clew, and old Herman had advanced from brooding by the fire to longand furious wanderings about the city streets. 

He felt no remorse, only a growing and alarming fury. He returned atnight, to his cold and unkempt house, to cook himself a frugal andwretched meal. His money had run very low, and with true Germanstubbornness he refused to draw any from the savings bank. 

Rudolph was very busy. There were meetings always, and to the littleinner circle that met behind Gus's barroom one night later in March, hedivulged the plan for the destruction of the new Spencer munition plant. 

"But--will they take him back?" one of the men asked. He was of betterclass than the rest, with a military bearing and a heavy German accent, for all his careful English. 

"Will a dog snatch at a bone?" countered Rudolph. "Take him back!They'll be crazy about it. "

"He has been there a long time. He may, at the last, weaken. "

But Rudolph only laughed, and drank more whisky of the German agent'sproviding. 

"He won't weaken, " he said. "Give me a few days more to find the girl, and all hell won't hold him. "

On the Sunday morning after the President had been before Congress, hefound Herman dressed for church, but sitting by the fire. All aroundhim lay the Sunday paper, and he barely raised his head when Rudolphentered. 

"Well, it's here!" said Rudolph. 

"It has come. Yes. "

"Wall Street will be opening champagne to-day. "

Herman said nothing. But later on he opened up the fountain of rage inhis heart. It was wrong, all wrong. We had no quarrel with Germany. It was the capitalists and politicians who had done it. And above all, England. 

He went far. He blamed America and Americans for his loss of work, forAnna's disappearance. He searched his mind for grievances and foundthem in the ore dust on the hill, which killed his garden; in theinefficiency of the police, who could not find Anna; in the veryattitude of Clayton Spencer toward his resignation. 

And on this smoldering fire Rudolph piled fuel Not that he said a greatdeal. He worked around the cottage, washed dishes, threw pails of wateron the dirty porches, swept the floor, carried in coal and wood. Andgradually he began to play on the older man's vanity. He had had greatinfluence with the millworkers. No one man had ever had so much. 

Old Herman sat up, and listened sourly. But after a time he got up andpouring some water out of the kettle, proceeded to shave himself. And Rudolph talked on. If now he were to go back, and it were to theadvantage of the Fatherland and of the workers of the world to hamperthe industry, who so able to do it as Herman. 

"Hamper? How?" Herman asked, suspiciously, holding his razor aloft. Hehad a great fear of the law. 

Rudolph re-assured him, cunning eyes averted. 

"Well, a strike, " he suggested. "The men'll listen to you. God knowsthey've got a right to strike. "

"I shall not go back, " said Herman stolidly, and finished his shaving. 

But Rudolph was satisfied. He left Herman sitting again by the fire, buthis eyes were no longer brooding. He was thinking, watching the smokecurl up from the china-bowled German pipe which he had brought from theFatherland, and which he used only on special occasions. 

CHAPTER XXXIII

The declaration of war found Graham desperately unhappy. Natalie heldhim rigidly to his promise, but it is doubtful if Natalie alone couldhave kept, him out of the army. Marion was using her influence, too! Sheheld him by alternating between almost agreeing to runaway marriage andthreats of breaking the engagement if he went to war. She had tacitlyagreed to play Natalie's game, and she was doing it. 

Graham did not analyze his own misery. What he said to himself was thathe was making a mess of things. Life, which had seemed to be a simplething, compounded of work and play, had become involved, difficult andwretched. 

Some times he watched Clayton almost with envy. He seemed so sure ofhimself; he was so poised, so calm, so strong. And he wondered ifthere had been a tumultuous youth behind the quiet of his maturity. He compared the even course of Clayton's days, his work, his club, theimmaculate orderliness of his life, with his own disordered existence. 

He was hedged about with women. Wherever he turned, they obtrudedthemselves. He made plans and women brushed them aside. He tried to livehis life, and women stepped in and lived it for him. His mother, Marion, Anna Klein. Even Delight, with her friendship always overclouded withdisapproval. Wherever he turned, a woman stood in the way. Yet he couldnot do without them. He needed them even while he resented them. 

Then, gradually, into his self-engrossment there penetrated a convictionthat all was not well between his father and his mother. He had alwaystaken them for granted much as he did the house and the servants. In hisbrief vacations during his college days they had agreed or disagreed, amicably enough. He had considered, in those days, that life was avery simple thing. People married and lived together. Marriage, heconsidered, was rather the end of things. 

But he was older now, and he knew that marriage was a beginning and notan end. It did not change people fundamentally. It only changed theirhabits. 

His discovery that his father and mother differed about the war wasthe first of other discoveries; that they differed about him; that theydiffered about many matters; that, indeed, they had no common ground atall on which to meet; between them, although Graham did not put it thatway, was a No-Man's Land strewn with dead happiness, lost desires, andthe wreckage of years of dissension. 

It was incredible to Graham that he should ever reach the forties, buthe wondered some times if all of life was either looking forward orlooking back. And it seemed to him rather tragic that for Clayton, whostill looked like a boy, there should be nothing but his day at themill, his silent evening at home, or some stodgy dinner-party where thewomen were all middle-aged, and the other men a trifle corpulent. 

For the first time he was beginning to think of Clayton as a man, ratherthan a father. 

Not that all of this was coherently thought out. It was a series ofimpressions, outgrowth of his own beginning development and of his ownuneasiness. 

He wondered, too, about Rodney Page. He seemed to be always around, underfoot, suave, fastidious, bowing Natalie out of the room andin again. He had deplored the war until he found his attitudeunfashionable, and then he began, with great enthusiasm, to arrangepageants for Red Cross funds, and even to make little speeches, gracefuland artificial, patterned on his best after-dinner manner. 

Graham was certain that he supported his mother in trying to keep him athome, and he began to hate him with a healthy young hate. However, latein April, he posed in one of the pageants, rather ungraciously, ina khaki uniform. It was not until the last minute that he knew thatDelight Haverford was to be the nurse bending over his prostrate figure. He turned rather savage. 

"Rotten nonsense, " he said to her, "when they stood waiting to be posed. 

"Oh, I don't know. They're rather pretty. "

"Pretty! Do you suppose I want it be pretty?"

"Well, I do, " said Delight, calmly. 

"It's fake. That's what I hate. If you were really a nurse, and wasreally in uniform--! But this parading in somebody else's clothes, orstuff hired for the occasion--it's sickening. "

Delight regarded him with clear, appraising eyes. 

"Why don't you get a uniform of your own, then?" she inquired. Shesmiled a little. 

He never knew what the effort cost her. He was pale and angry, and hisface in the tableau was so set that it brought a round of applause. Withthe ringing down of the curtain he confronted her, almost menacingly. 

"What did you mean by that?" he demanded. "We've hardly got into thisthing yet. "

"We are in it, Graham. "

"Just because I don't leap into the first recruiting office and beg themto take me--what right have you got to call me a slacker?"

"But I heard--"

"Go on!"

"It doesn't matter what I heard, if you are going. "

"Of course I'm going, " he said, truculently. 

He meant it, too. He would get Anna settled somewhere--she had begunto mend--and then he would have it out with Marion and his mother. Butthere was no hurry. The war would last a long time. And so it was thatGraham Spencer joined the long line of those others who had bought apiece of ground, or five yoke of oxen, or had married a wife. 

It was the morning after the pageant that Clayton, going down-town withhim in the car, voiced his expectation that the government would takeover their foreign contracts, and his feeling that, in that case, itwould be a mistake to profit by the nation's necessities. 

"What do you mean, sir?"

"I mean we should take only a small profit. A banker's profit. "

Graham had been fairly stunned, and had sat quiet while Claytonexplained his attitude. There were times when big profits wereallowable. There was always the risk to invested capital to consider. But he did not want to grow fat on the nation's misfortunes. Italy wasone thing. This was different. 

"But--we are just getting on our feet!"

"Think it over!" said Clayton. "This is going to be a long war, and anexpensive one. We don't particularly want to profit by it, do we?"

Graham flushed. He felt rather small and cheap, but with that there wasa growing admiration of his father. Suddenly he saw that this man besidehim was a big man, one to be proud of. For already he knew the cost ofthe decision. He sat still, turning this new angle of war over in hismind. 

"I'd like to see some of your directors when you put that up to them!"

Clayton nodded rather grimly. He did not anticipate a pleasant hour. 

"How about mother?"

"I think we may take it for granted that she feels as we do. "

Graham pondered that, too. 

"What about the new place?"

"It's too soon to discuss that. We are obligated to do a certain amount. Of course it would be wise to cut where we can. "

Graham smiled. 

"She'll raise the deuce of a row, " was his comment. 

It had never occurred to him before to take sides between his father andhis mother, but there was rising in him a new and ardent partisanshipof his father, a feeling that they were, in a way, men together. He had, more than once, been tempted to go to him with the Anna Klein situation. He would have, probably, but a fellow felt an awful fool going tosomebody and telling him that a girl was in love with him, and what thedickens was he to do about it?

He wondered, too, if anybody would believe that his relationship withAnna was straight, under the circumstances. For weeks now he had beensending her money, out of a sheer sense of responsibility for herbeating and her illness. He took no credit for altruism. He knew quitewell the possibilities of the situation. He made no promises to himself. But such attraction as Anna had had for him had been of her prettiness, and their propinquity. Again she was girl, and that was all. And theattraction was very faint now. He was only sorry for her. 

When she could get about she took to calling him up daily from adrug-store at a near-by corner, and once he met her after dark andthey walked a few blocks together. She was still weak, but she wasspiritualized, too. He liked her a great deal that night. 

"Do you know you've loaned me over a hundred dollars, Graham?" sheasked. 

"That's not a loan. I owed you that. "

"I'll pay it back. I'm going to start to-morrow to look for work, and itwon't cost me much to live. "

"If you send it back, I'll buy you another watch!"

And, tragic as the subject was, they both laughed. 

"I'd have died if I hadn't had you to think about when I was sick, Graham. I wanted to die--except for you. "

He had kissed her then, rather because he knew she expected him to. Whenthey got back to the house she said:

"You wouldn't care to come up?"

"I don't think I had better, Anna. "

"The landlady doesn't object. There isn't any parlor. All the girls havetheir callers in their rooms. "

"I have to go out to-night, " he said evasively. "I'll come some othertime. "

As he started away he glanced back at her. She was standing in thedoorway, eying him wistfully, a lonely and depressed little figure. Hewas tempted to throw discretion to the wind and go back. But he did not. 

On the day when Clayton had broached the subject of offering theiroutput to the government at only a banker's profit, Anna called him upat his new office in the munition plant. 

He was rather annoyed. His new secretary was sitting across the desk, and it was difficult to make his responses noncommittal. 

"Graham!"

"Yes. "

"Is anybody there? Can you talk?"

"Not very well. "

"Then listen; I'll talk. I want to see you. "

"I'm busy all day. Sorry. "

"Listen, Graham, I must see you. I've something to tell you. "

"All right, go ahead. "

"It's about Rudolph. I was out looking for a position yesterday and Imet him. "

"Yes?"

He looked up. Miss Peterson was absently scribbling on the cover of herbook, and listening intently. 

"He was terrible, Graham. He accused me of all sorts of things, aboutyou. "

He almost groaned aloud over the predicament he was in. It began to lookserious. 

"Suppose I pick you up and we have dinner somewhere?"

"At the same corner?"

"Yes. "

He was very irritable all morning. He felt as though a net was closingin around him, and his actual innocence made him the more miserable. Miss Peterson found him very difficult that day, and shed tears in herlittle room before she went to lunch. 

Anna herself was difficult that evening. Her landlady's son had given upa good job and enlisted. Everybody was going. She supposed Graham wouldgo next, and she'd be left alone. 

"I don't know. I'd like to. "

"Oh, you'll go, all right. And you'll forget I ever existed. " She madean effort. "You're right, of course. I'm only looking ahead. If anythinghappens to you, I'll kill myself. "

The idea interested her. She began to dramatize herself, a forlornfigure, driven from home, and deserted by her lover. She saw herselflying in the cottage, stately and mysterious, while the hill girls wentin and out, and whispered. 

"I'll kill myself, " she repeated. 

"Nothing will happen to me, Anna, dear. "

"I don't know why I care so. I'm nothing to you. "

"That's not so. "

"If you cared, you'd have come up the other night. You left me alone inthat lonesome hole. It's hell, that place. All smells and whispering anddirt. "

"Now listen to me, Anna. You're tired, or you wouldn't say that. Youknow I'm fond of you. But I've got you into trouble enough. I'm not--forGod's sake don't tempt me, Anna. "

She looked at him half scornfully. 

"Tempt you!" Then she gave a little scream. Graham following her eyeslooked through the window near them. 

"Rudolph!" she whimpered. And began to weep out of pure terror. 

But Graham saw nobody. To soothe her, however, he went outside andlooked about. There were half a dozen cars, a group of chauffeurs, butno Rudolph. He went hack to her, to find her sitting, pale and tense, her hands clenched together. 

"They'll pay you out some way, " she said. "I know them. They'll neverbelieve the truth. That was Rudolph, all right. He'll think we're livingtogether. He'd never believe anything else. "

"Do you think he followed you the other day?"

"I gave him the shake, in the crowd. "

"Then I don't see why you're worrying. We're just where we were before, aren't we?"

"You don't know them. I do. They'll be up to something. "

She was excited and anxious, and with the cocktail he ordered for hershe grew reckless. 

"I'm just hung around your neck like a stone, " she lamented. "You don'tcare a rap for me; I know it. You're just sorry for me. "

Her eyes filled again, and Graham rose, with an impatient movement. 

"Let's get out of this, " he said roughly. "The whole place is staring atyou. "

But on the road the fact that she had been weeping for him made himrelent. He put an arm around her and drew her to him. 

"Don't cry, honey, " he said. "It makes me unhappy to see you miserable. "

He kissed her. And they clung together, finding a little comfort in thecontact of warm young bodies. 

He went up to her room that night. He was more anxious as to Rudolphthan he cared to admit, but he went up, treading softly on stairsthat creaked with every step. He had no coherent thoughts. He wantedcompanionship rather than love. He was hungry for what she gave him, thetouch of her hands about his neck, the sense of his manhood that shonefrom her faithful eyes, the admiration and unstinting love she offeredhim. 

But alone in the little room he had a reaction, not the less keenbecause it was his fastidious rather than his moral sense that revolted. The room was untidy, close, sordid. Even Anna's youth did not redeem it. Again he had the sense, when he had closed the door, of being caught ina trap, and this time a dirty trap. When she had taken off her hat, andheld up her face to be kissed, he knew he would not stay. 

"It's awful, isn't it?" she asked, following his eyes. 

"It doesn't look like you. That's sure. "

"I hurried out. It's not so bad when it's tidy. "

He threw up the window, and stood there a moment. The spring air wascool and clean, and there was a sound of tramping feet below. He lookeddown. The railway station was near-by, and marching toward it, with thelong swing of regulars, a company of soldiers was moving rapidly. Thenight, the absence of drums or music, the businesslike rapidity oftheir progress, held him there, looking down. He turned around. Anna hadslipped off her coat, and had opened the collar of her blouse. Her neckgleamed white and young. She smiled at him. 

"I guess I'll be going, " he stammered. 

"Going!"

"I only wanted to see how you are fixed. " His eyes evaded hers. "I'llsee you again in a day or two. I--"

He could not tell her the thoughts that were surging in him. The countrywas at war. Those fellows below there were already in it, of it. Andhere in this sordid room, he had meant to take her, not because he lovedher, but because she offered herself. It was cheap. It was terrible. Itwas--dirty. 

"Good night, " he said, and tried to kiss her. But she turned her faceaway. She stood listening to his steps on the stairs as he went down, steps that mingled and were lost in the steady tramp of the soldiers'feet in the street below. 

CHAPTER XXXIV

With his many new problems following the declaration of war, ClaytonSpencer found a certain peace. It was good to work hard. It was good tofill every working hour, and to drop into sleep at night too weary forconsecutive thought. 

Yet had he been frank with himself he would have acknowledged thatAudrey was never really out of his mind. Back of his every decision layhis desire for her approval. He did not make them with her consciouslyin his mind, but he wanted her to know and understand, In hisdetermination, for instance, to offer his shells to the government at anominal profit, there was no desire to win her approbation. 

It was rather that he felt her behind him in the decision. He shrankfrom telling Natalie. Indeed, until he had returned from Washingtonhe did not broach the subject. And then he was tired and ratherdiscouraged, and as a result almost brutally abrupt. 

Coming on top of a hard fight with the new directorate, a fight which hehad finally won, Washington was disheartening. Planning enormously forthe future it seemed to have no vision for the things of the present. Hewas met vaguely, put off, questioned. He waited hours, as patiently ashe could, to find that no man seemed to have power to act, or to knowwhat powers he had. 

He found something else, too--a suspicion of him, of his motives. Whooffered something for nothing must be actuated by some deep and hiddenmotive. He found his plain proposition probed and searched for someulterior purpose behind it. 

"It's the old distrust, Mr. Spencer, " said Hutchinson, who had gone withhim to furnish figures and various data. "The Democrats are opposed tocapital. They're afraid of it. And the army thinks all civilians are onthe make--which is pretty nearly true. "

He saw the Secretary of War, finally, and came away feeling better. He had found there an understanding that a man may--even should--makesacrifices for his country during war. But, although he carried awaywith him the conviction that his offer would ultimately be accepted, there was nothing actually accomplished. He sent Hutchinson back, andwaited for a day or two, convinced that his very sincerity must bring aconcrete result, and soon. 

Then, lunching alone one day in the Shoreham, he saw Audrey Valentine atanother table. He had not seen her for weeks, and he had an odd momentof breathlessness when his eyes fell on her. She was pale and thin, and her eyes looked very tired. His first impulse was to go to her. Thesecond, on which he acted, was to watch her for a little, to fill hiseyes for the long months of emptiness ahead. 

She was with a man in uniform, a young man, gay and smiling. He waspaying her evident court, in a debonair fashion, bending toward heracross the table. Suddenly Clayton was jealous, fiercely jealous. 

The jealousy of the young is sad enough, but it is an ephemeral thing. Life calls from many directions. There is always the future, and thethings of the future. And behind it there is the buoyancy and easyforgetfulness of youth. But the jealousy of later years knows no suchrelief. It sees time flying and happiness evading it. It has notthe easy self-confidence of the twenties. It has learned, too, thathappiness is a rare elusive thing, to be held and nursed and clung to, and that even love must be won and held. 

It has learned that love must be free, but its instinct is to hold itwith chains. 

He suffered acutely, and was ashamed of his suffering. After all, Audrey was still young. Life had not been kind to her, and she should beallowed to have such happiness as she could. He could offer her nothing. 

He would give her up. He had already given her up. She knew it. 

Then she saw him, and his determination died under the light thatcame in her eyes. Give her up! How could he give her up, when she waseverything he had in the world? With a shock, he recognized in thethought Natalie's constant repetition as to Graham. So he had come tothat!

He felt Audrey's eyes on him, but he did not go to her. He signed hischeck, and went out. He fully meant to go away without seeing her. Butoutside he hesitated. That would hurt her, and it was cowardly. When, afew moments later, she came out, followed by the officer, it was to findhim there, obviously waiting. 

"I wondered if you would dare to run away!" she said. "This is CaptainSloane, Clay, and he knows a lot about you. "

Close inspection showed Sloane handsome, bronzed, and with a softSouthern voice, somewhat like Audrey's. And it developed that hecame from her home, and was on his way to one of the early camps. Heobviously intended to hold on to Audrey, and Clayton left them therewith the feeling that Audrey's eyes were following him, wistful and fullof trouble. He had not even asked her where she was stopping. 

He took a long walk that afternoon, and re-made his noon-hourresolution. He would keep away from her. It might hurt her at first, but she was young. She would forget. And he must not stand in her way. Having done which, he returned to the Shoreham and spent an hour in atelephone booth, calling hotels systematically and inquiring for her. 

When he finally located her his voice over the wire startled her. 

"Good heavens, Clay, " she said. "Are you angry about anything?"

"Of course not. I just wanted to--I am leaving to-night and I'm sayinggood-by. That's all. "

"Oh!" She waited. 

"Have you had a pleasant afternoon?"

"Aren't you going to see me before you go?"

"I don't think so. "

"Don't you want to know what I am doing in Washington?"

"That's fairly clear, isn't it?"

"You are being rather cruel, Clay. "

He hesitated. He was amazed at his own attitude. Then, "Will you dinewith me to-night?"

"I kept this evening for you. "

But when he saw her, his sense of discomfort only increased. Theirdining together was natural enough. It was not even faintly clandestine. But the new restraint he put on himself made him reserved and unhappy. He could not act a part. And after a time Audrey left off acting, too, and he found her watching him. On the surface he talked, but underneathit he saw her unhappiness, and her understanding of his. 

"I'm going back, too, " she said. "I came down to see what I can do, butthere is nothing for the untrained woman. She's a cumberer of the earth. I'll go home and knit. I daresay I ought to be able to learn to do thatwell, anyhow. "

"Have you forgiven me for this afternoon?"

"I wasn't angry. I understood. "

That was it, in a nutshell. Audrey understood. She was that sort. Shenever held small resentments. He rather thought she never felt them. 

"Don't talk about me, " she said. "Tell me about you and why you arehere. It's the war, of course. "

So, rather reluctantly, he told her. He shrank from seeming to want herapproval, but at the same time he wanted it. His faith in himself hadbeen shaken. He needed it restored. And some of the exaltation which hadled him to make his proffer to the government came back when he saw howshe flushed over it. 

"It's very big, " she said, softly. "It's like you, Clay. And that's thebest thing I can say. I am very proud of you. "

"I would rather have you proud of me than anything in the world, " hesaid, unsteadily. 

They drifted, somehow, to talking of happiness. And always, carefullyveiled, it was their own happiness they discussed. 

"I don't think, " she said, glancing away from him, "that one finds itby looking for it. That is selfish, and the selfish are never happy. It comes--oh, in queer ways. When you're trying to give it to somebodyelse, mostly. "

"There is happiness, of a sort, in work. "

Their eyes met. That was what they had to face, she dedicated toservice, he to labor. 

"It's never found by making other people unhappy, Clay. "

"No. And yet, if the other people are already unhappy?"

"Never!" she said. And the answer was to the unspoken question in boththeir hearts. 

It was not until they were in the taxicab that Clayton forced thepersonal note, and then it came as a cry, out of the very depths of him. She had slipped her hand into his, and the comfort of even that smalltouch broke down the barriers he had so carefully erected. 

"I need you so!" he said. And he held her hand to his face. She made nomovement to withdraw it. 

"I need you, too, " she replied. "I never get over needing you. But weare going to play the game, Clay. We may have our weak hours--and thisis one of them--but always, please God, we'll play the game. "

The curious humility he felt with her was in his voice. 

"I'll need your help, even in that. "

And that touch of boyishness almost broke down her reserve of strength. She wanted to draw his head down on her shoulder, and comfort him. Shewanted to smooth back his heavy hair, and put her arms around him andhold him. There was a great tenderness in her for him. There were timeswhen she would have given the world to have gone into his arms and lethim hold her there, protected and shielded. But that night she was thestronger, and she knew it. 

"I love you, Audrey. I love you terribly. "

And that was the word for it. It was terrible. She knew it. 

"To have gone through all the world, " he said, brokenly, "and then tofind the Woman, when it is too late. Forever too late. " He turned towardher. "You know it, don't you? That you are my woman?"

"I know it, " she answered, steadily. "But I know, too--"

"Let me say it just once. Then never again. I'll bury it, but you willknow it is there. You are my woman. I would go through all of life aloneto find you at the end. And if I could look forward, dear, to goingthrough the rest of it with you beside me, so I could touch you, likethis--"

"I know. "

"If I could only protect you, and shield you--oh, how tenderly I couldcare for you, my dear, my dear!"

The strength passed to him, then. Audrey had a clear picture of whatlife with him might mean, of his protection, his tenderness. She hadnever known it. Suddenly every bit of her called out for his care, hisquiet strength. 

"Don't make me sorry for myself. " There were tears in her eyes. "Willyou kiss me, Clay? We might have that to remember. "

But they were not to have even that, for the taxicab drew up before herhotel. It was one of the absurd anti-climaxes of life that they shouldpart with a hand-clasp and her formal "Thank you for a lovely evening. "

Audrey was the better actor of the two. She went in as casually asthough she had not put the only happiness of her life away from her. But Clayton Spencer stood on the pavement, watching her in, and all thetragedy of the empty years ahead was in his eyes. 

CHAPTER XXXV

Left alone in her untidy room after Graham's abrupt departure, AnnaKlein was dazed. She stood where he left her, staring ahead. What hadhappened meant only one thing to her, that Graham no longer cared abouther, and, if that was true, she did not care to live. 

It never occurred to her that he had done rather a fine thing, or thathe had protected her against herself. She felt no particular shame, savethe shame of rejection. In her small world of the hill, if a man gave agirl valuable gifts or money there was generally a quid pro quo. If thegirl was unwilling, she did not accept such gifts. If the man wantednothing, he did not make them. And men who made love to girls eitherwanted to marry them or desired some other relationship with them. 

She listened to his retreating footsteps, and then began, automaticallyto unbutton her thin white blouse. But with the sound of the engine ofhis car below she ran to the window. She leaned out, elbows on the sill, and watched him go, without a look up at her window. 

So that was the end of that!

Then, all at once, she was fiercely angry. He had got her into thisscrape, and now he had left her. He had pretended to love her, and allthe time he had meant to do just this, to let her offer herself so hemight reject her. He had been playing with her. She had lost her homebecause of him, had been beaten almost insensible, had been ill forweeks, and now he had driven away, without even looking back. 

She jerked her blouse off, still standing by the window, and when thesleeve caught on her watch, she jerked that off, too. She stood for amoment with it in her hand, her face twisted with shame and anger. Thenrecklessly and furiously she flung it through the open window. 

In the stillness of the street far below she heard it strike andrebound. 

"That for him!" she muttered. 

Almost immediately she wanted it again. He had given it to her. It wasall she had left now, and in a curious way it had, through long wearing, come to mean Graham to her. She leaned out of the window. She thoughtshe saw it gleaming in the gutter, and already, attracted by the crash, a man was crossing the street to where it lay. 

"You let that alone, " she called down desperately. The figure wasalready stooping over it. Entirely reckless now, she ran, bare-armed andbare-bosomed, down the stairs and out into the street. She had thoughtto see its finder escaping, but he was still standing where he hadpicked it up. 

"It's mine, " she began. "I dropped it out of the window. I--"

"You threw it out of the window. I saw you. "

It was Rudolph. 

"You--" He snarled, and stood with menacing eyes fixed on her bare neck. 

"Rudolph!"

"Get into the house, " he said roughly. "You're half-naked. "

"Give me my watch. "

"I'll give it to you, all right. What's left of it. When we get in. "

He followed her into the hail, but when she turned there and held outher hand, he only snarled again. 

"We'll talk up-stairs. "

"I can't take you up. The landlady don't allow it. "

"She don't, eh? You had that Spencer skunk up there. "

His face frightened her, and she lied vehemently. 

"That's not so, and you know it, Rudolph Klein. He came inside, justlike this, and we stood and talked. Then he went away. He wasn't insideten minutes. " Her voice rose hysterically, but Rudolph caught her by thearm, and pushing her ahead of him, forced her up the stairs. 

"We're going to have this out, " he muttered, viciously. 

Half way up she stopped. 

"You're hurting my arm. "

"You be glad I'm not breaking it for you. "

He climbed in a mounting fury. He almost threw her into her room, andclosing the door, he turned the key in it. His face reminded her ofher father's the night he had beaten her, and her instinct ofself-preservation made her put the little table between them. 

"You lay a hand on me, " she panted, "and I'll yell out the window. Thepolice would be glad enough to have something on you, Rudolph Klein, andyou know it. "

"They arrest women like you, too. "

"Don't you dare say that. " And as he took a step or two toward hershe retreated to the window. "You stay there, or I'll jump out of thewindow. "

She looked desperate enough to do it, and Rudolph hesitated. 

"He was up here. I saw him at the window. I've been trailing you allevening. Keep off that window-sill, you little fool! I'm not going tokill you. But I'm going to get him, all right, and don't you forget it. "

His milder tone and the threat frightened her more than ever. He wouldget Graham; he was like that. Get him in some cruel, helpless way;that was the German blood in him. She began to play for time, withinstinctive cunning. 

"Listen, Rudolph, " she said. "I'll tell you all about it. He did comeup, but he left right away. We quarreled. He threw me over, Rudolph. That's what he did. "

Her own words reminded her of her humiliation, and tears came into hereyes. 

"He threw me over! Honest he did. That's why I threw his watch out ofthe window. That's straight, Rudolph. That's straight goods. I'm notlying now. "

"God!" said Rudolph. "The dirty pup. Then--then you're through with him, eh?"

"I'm through, all right. "

Her tone carried conviction. Rudolph's face relaxed, and seeing that, she remembered her half-dressed condition. 

"Throw me that waist, " she said. 

"Come around and get it. "

"Aw, Rudolph, throw it. Please!"

"Getting modest, all at once, " he jeered. But he picked it up andadvanced to the table with it. As she held out her hand for it he caughther and drew her forward toward him, across the table. 

"You little devil!" he said, and kissed her. 

She submitted, because she must, but she shivered. If she was to saveGraham she must play the game. And so far she was winning. She wasfeminine enough to know that already the thing he thought she haddone was to be forgiven her. More than that, she saw a half-reluctantadmiration in Rudolph's eyes, as though she had gained value, if shehad lost virtue, by the fact that young Spencer had fancied her. And Rudolph's morals were the morals of many of his kind. He admiredchastity in a girl, but he did not expect it. 

But she was watchful for the next move he might make. That it was notwhat she expected did not make it the less terrifying. 

"You get your hat and coat on. "

"I'll not do anything of the kind. "

"D'you think I'm going to leave you here, where he can come backwhenever he wants to? You think again!"

"Where are you going to take me?"

"I'm going to take you home. "

When pleading made no impression on him, and when he refused to movewithout her, she threw her small wardrobe into the suitcase, and puther hat and coat on. She was past thinking, quite hopeless. She wouldgo back, and her father would kill her, which would be the best thinganyhow; she didn't care to live. 

Rudolph had relapsed into moody silence. Down the stairs, and on thestreet he preceded her, contemptuously letting her trail behind. Hecarried her suitcase, however, and once, being insecurely fastened, itopened and bits of untidy apparel littered the pavement. He dropped thesuitcase and stood by while she filled it again. The softness of thatmoment, when, lured by her bare arms he had kissed her, was gone. 

The night car jolted and swayed. After a time he dozed, and Anna, watching him, made an attempt at flight. He caught her on the rearplatform, however, with a clutch that sickened her. The conductor eyedthem with the scant curiosity of two o'clock in the morning, when allthe waking world is awry. 

At last they were climbing the hill to the cottage, while behind andbelow them the Spencer furnaces sent out their orange and violet flames, and the roar of the blast sounded like the coming of a mighty wind. 

The cottage was dark. Rudolph put down the suitcase, and called Hermansoftly through his hands. Above they could hear him moving, and hisangry voice came through the open window. 

"What you want?"

"Come down. It's Rudolph. "

But when he turned Anna was lying in a dead faint on the garden path, acrumpled little heap of blissful forgetfulness. When Herman came down, it was to find Rudolph standing over her, the suitcase still in hishand, and an ugly scowl on his face. 

"Well, I got her, " he said. "She's scared, that's all. " He proddedher with his foot, but she did not move, and Herman bent down with hiscandle. 

He straightened. 

"Bring her in, " he said, and led the way into the house. When Rudolphstaggered in, with Anna in his arms, he found Herman waiting andfingering the leather strap. 

CHAPTER XXXVI

Audrey had found something to do at last. It was Captain Sloane who hadgiven her the idea. 

"You would make a great hit, Audrey, " he had said. "It's your voice, youknow. There's something about it--well, you know the effect it alwayshas on me. No? All right, I'll be good. "

But she had carried the idea home with her, and had proceeded, with hercustomary decision, to act on it. 

Then, one day in May, she was surprised by a visit from DelightHaverford. She had come home, tired and rather depressed, to findthe Haverford car at the door, and Delight waiting for her in hersitting-room. 

Audrey's acquaintance with Delight had been rather fragmentary, but ithad covered a long stretch of time. So, if she was surprised, it was notgreatly when Delight suddenly kissed her. She saw then that the girl hadbrought her some spring flowers, and the little tribute touched her. 

"What a nice child you are!" she said, and standing before the mirrorproceeded to take off her hat. Before her she could see the reflectionof Delight's face, and her own tired, slightly haggard eyes. 

"And how unutterably old you make me look!" she added, smiling. 

"You are too lovely for words, Mrs. Valentine. "

Audrey patted her hair into order, and continued her smiling inspectionof the girl's face. 

"And now we have exchanged compliments, " she said, "we will have sometea, and then you shall tell me what you are so excited about. "

"I am excited; I--"

"Let's have the tea first. "

Audrey's housekeeping was still rather casual. Tidiness of Natalie'smeticulous order would always be beyond her, but after certain franticsearches for what was needed, she made some delicious tea. 

"Order was left out of me, somehow, " she complained. "Or else thingsmove about when I'm away. I'm sure it is that, because I certainly neverput the sugar behind my best hat. Now--let's have it. "

Delight was only playing with her tea. She flushed delicately, and putthe cup down. 

"I was in the crowd this morning, " she said. 

"In the crowd? Oh, my crowd!"

"Yes. "

"I see, " said Audrey, thoughtfully. "I make a dreadful speech, youknow. "

"I thought you were wonderful. And, when those men promised to enlist, Icried. I was horribly ashamed. But you were splendid. "

"I wonder!" said Audrey, growing grave. Delight was astonished to seethat there were tears in her eyes. "I do it because it is all I can do, and of course they must go. But some times at night--you see, my dear, some of them are going to be killed. I am urging them to go, but thebetter the day I have had, the less I sleep at night. "

There was a little pause. Delight was thinking desperately of somethingto say. 

"But you didn't come to talk about me, did you?"

"Partly. And partly about myself. I want to do something, Mrs. Valentine. I can drive a car, but not very well. I don't know a thingabout the engine. And I can nurse a little. I like nursing. "

Audrey studied her face. It seemed to her sad beyond words that thisyoung girl, who should have had only happiness, was facing the horrorsof what would probably be a long war. It was the young who paid theprice of war, in death, in empty years. Already the careless gayety oftheir lives was gone. For the dream futures they had planned they hadnow to substitute long waiting; for happiness, service. 

"The Red Cross is going to send canteen workers to France. You might dothat. "

"If I only could! But I can't leave mother. Not entirely. Father isgoing. He wants to go and fight, but I'm afraid they won't take him. He'll go as a chaplain, anyhow. But he's perfectly helpless, you know. Mother says she is going to tie his overshoes around his neck. "

"I'll see if I can think of something for you, Delight. There's onething in my mind. There are to be little houses built in all the newtraining-camps for officers, and they are to be managed by women. Theyare to serve food--sandwiches and coffee, I think. They may be even morepretentious. I don't know, but I'll find out. "

"I'll do anything, " said Delight, and got up. It was then that Audreyrealized that there was something more to the visit than had appeared, for Delight, ready to go, hesitated. 

"There is something else, Mrs. Valentine, " she said, rather slowly. "What would you do if a young man wanted to go into the service, andsomebody held him back?"

"His own people?"

"His mother. And--a girl. "

"I would think the army is well off without him. "

Delight flushed painfully. 

"Perhaps, " she admitted. "But is it right just to let it go at that?If you like people, it seems wrong just to stand by and let others ruintheir lives for them. "

"Only very weak men let women ruin their lives. "

But already she began to understand the situation. 

"There's a weakness that is only a sort of habit. It may come from notwanting to hurt somebody. " Delight was pulling nervously at her gloves. "And there is this to be said, too. If there is what you call weakness, wouldn't the army be good for it? It makes men, some times, doesn't it?"

For a sickening moment, Audrey thought of Chris. War had made Chris, butit had killed him, too. 

"Have you thought of one thing?" she asked. "That in trying to make thisyoung man, whoever it is, he may be hurt, or even worse?"

"He would have to take his chance, like the rest. "

She went a little pale, however. Audrey impulsively put an arm aroundher. 

"And this--woman is the little long-legged girl who used to give signalsto her father when the sermon was too long! Now--what can I do aboutthis youth who can't make up his own mind?"

"You can talk to his mother. "

"If I know his mother--? and I think I do--it won't do the slightestgood. "

"Then his father. You are great friends, aren't you?"

Even this indirect mention of Clayton made Audrey's hands tremble. Sheput them behind her. 

"We are very good friends, " she said. But Delight was too engrossed tonotice the deeper note in her voice. "I'll see what I can do. But don'tcount on me too much. You spoke of a girl. I suppose I know who it is. "

"Probably. It is Marion Hayden. He is engaged to her. "

And again Audrey marveled at her poise, for Delight's little tragedy wasclear by that time. Clear, and very sad. 

"I can't imagine his really being in love with her. "

"But he must be. They are engaged. "

Audrey smiled at the simple philosophy of nineteen, smiled and wasextremely touched. How brave the child was! Audrey's own courageousheart rather swelled in admiration. 

But after Delight had gone, she felt depressed again, and very tired. How badly these things were handled! How strange it was that love sooften brought suffering! Great loves were almost always great tragedies. Perhaps it was because love was never truly great until the element ofsacrifice entered into it. 

Her own high courage failed her somewhat. During these recent days when, struggling against very real stage fright, she made her husky, whollyearnest but rather nervous little appeals to the crowds before theenlisting stations, she got along bravely enough during the day. But thenight found her sad, unutterably depressed. 

At these times she was haunted by a fear that persisted against all herarguments. In Washington Clayton had not looked well. He had beenvery tired and white, and some of his natural buoyancy seemed to havedeserted him. He needed caring for, she would reflect bitterly. Thereshould be some one to look after him. He was tired and anxious, but ittook the eyes of love to see it. Natalie would never notice, and wouldconsider it a grievance if she did. The fiercely, maternal tendernessof the childless woman for the man she loves kept her awake at nightstaring into the darkness and visualizing terrible things. Clayton ill, and she unable to go to him. Ill, and wanting her, and unable to ask forher. 

She was, she knew, not quite normal, but the fear gripped and held her. These big strong men, no one ever looked after them. They spent theirlives caring for others, and were never cared for. 

There were times when a sort of exaltation of sacrifice kept her headhigh, when the thing she was forced to give up seemed trifling comparedwith the men and boys who, some determinedly, some sheepishly, left thecrowd around the borrowed car from which she spoke, and went into therecruiting station. There was sacrifice and sacrifice, and there wassome comfort in the thought that both she and Clayton were putting thehappiness of others above their own. 

They had both, somehow, somewhere, missed the path. But they must nevergo back and try to find it. 

Delight's visit left her thoughtful. There must be some way to saveGraham. She wondered how much of Clayton's weariness was due to Graham. And she wondered, too, if he knew of the talk about Natalie and RodneyPage. There was a great deal of talk. Somehow such talk cheapened hissacrifice and hers. 

Not that she believed it, or much of it. She knew how little such gossipactually meant. Practically every woman she knew, herself included, hadat one time or another laid herself open to such invidious comment. Theyhad all been idle, and they sought amusement in such spurious affairs asthis, harmless in the main, but taking on the appearance of evil. Thatwas part of the game, to appear worse than one really was. The olderthe woman, the more eager she was often in her clutch at the vanishingromance of youth. 

Only--it was part of the game, too, to avoid scandal. A fierce pride forClayton's name sent the color to her face. 

On the evening after Delight's visit, she had promised to speak at arecruiting station far down-town in a crowded tenement district, andtired as she was, she took a bus and went down at seven o'clock. She wasuneasy and nervous. She had not spoken in the evening before, and in allher sheltered life she had never seen the milling of a night crowd in aslum district. 

There was a wagon drawn up at the curb, and an earnest-eyed youngclergyman was speaking. The crowd was attentive, mildly curious. Theclergyman was emphatic without being convincing. Audrey watched thefaces about her, standing in the crowd herself, and a sense of thefutility of it all gripped her. All these men, and only a feeble cheeras a boy still in his teens agreed to volunteer. All this effort forsuch scant result, and over on the other side such dire need! But onething cheered her. Beside her, in the crowd, a portly elderly Jew wasstanding with his hat in his hand, and when a man near him made somejeering comment, the Jew brought his hand down on his shoulder. 

"Be still and listen, " he said. "Or else go away and allow others tolisten. This is our country which calls. "

"It's amusing, isn't it?" Audrey heard a woman's voice near her, carefully inflected, slightly affected. 

"It's rather stunning, in a way. It's decorative; the white faces, andthat chap in the wagon, and the gasoline torch. "

"I'd enjoy it more if I'd had my dinner. "

The man laughed. 

"You are a most brazen combination of the mundane and the spiritual, Natalie. You are all soul--after you are fed. Come on. It's near here. "

Audrey's hands were very cold. By the movement of the crowd behind her, she knew that Natalie and Rodney were making their escape, toward foodand a quiet talk in some obscure restaurant in the neighborhood. Fierceanger shook her. For this she and Clayton were giving up the only hopethey had of happiness--that Natalie might carry on a cheap and stealthyflirtation. 

She made a magnificent appeal that night, and a very successful one. The lethargic crowd waked up and pressed forward. There were occasionalcheers, and now and then the greater tribute of convinced silence. Andon a box in the wagon the young clergyman eyed her almost wistfully. What a woman she was! With such a woman a man could live up to the bestin him. Then he remembered his salary in a mission church of twelvehundred a year, and sighed. 

He gained courage, later on, and asked Audrey if she would have somecoffee with him, or something to eat. She looked tired. 

"Tired!" said Audrey. "I am only tired these days when I am notworking. "

"You must not use yourself up. You are too valuable to the country. "

She was very grateful. After all, what else really mattered? In a littleglow she accepted his invitation. 

"Only coffee, " she said. "I have had dinner. Is there any place near?"

He piloted her through the crowd, now rapidly dispersing. Here and theresome man, often in halting English, thanked her for what she had said. Awoman, slightly the worse for drink, but with friendly, rather humorouseyes, put a hand on her arm. 

"You're all right, m'dear, " she said. "You're the stuff. Give it tothem. I wish to God I could talk. I'd tell 'em something. "

The clergyman drew her on hastily. 

In a small Italian restaurant, almost deserted, they found a table, andthe clergyman ordered eggs and coffee. He was a trifle uneasy. In thewagon Audrey's plain dark clothes had deceived him. But the single pearlon her finger was very valuable. He fell to apologizing for the place. 

"I often come here, " he explained. "The food is good, if you likeItalian cooking. And it is near my work. I--"

But Audrey was not listening. At a corner, far back, Natalie and Rodneywere sitting, engrossed in each other. Natalie's back was carefullyturned to the room, but there was no mistaking her. Audrey wanted madlyto get away, but the coffee had come and the young clergyman was talkinggentle platitudes in a rather sweet but monotonous voice. Then Rodneysaw her, and bowed. 

Almost immediately afterward she heard the soft rustle that was Natalie, and found them both beside her. 

"Can we run you up-town?" Natalie asked. "That is, unless--"

She glanced at the clergyman. 

"Thank you, no, Natalie. I'm going to have some supper first. "

Natalie was uneasy. Audrey made no move to present the clergyman, whosename she did not know. Rodney was looking slightly bored. 

"Odd little place, isn't it?" Natalie offered after a second's silence. 

"Rather quaint, I think. "

Natalie made a desperate effort to smooth over an awkward situation. Sheturned to the clergyman. 

"We heard you speaking. It was quite thrilling. "

He smiled a little. 

"Not so thrilling as this lady. She carried the crowd, absolutely. "

Natalie turned and stared at Audrey, who was flushed with annoyance. 

"You!" she said. "Do you mean to say you have been talking from thatwagon?"

"I haven't said it. But I have. "

"For heaven's sake!" Then she laughed and glanced at Rodney. "Well, if you won't tell on me, I'll not tell on you. " And then seeing Audreystraighten, "I don't mean that, of course. Clay's at a meeting to-night, so I am having a holiday. "

She moved on, always with the soft rustle, leaving behind her a delicatewhiff of violets and a wide-eyed clergyman, who stared after heradmiringly. 

"What a beautiful woman!" he said. There was a faint regret in hisvoice that Audrey had not presented him, and he did not see that hercoffee-cup trembled as she lifted it to her lips. 

At ten o'clock the next morning Natalie called her on the 'phone. Natalie's morning voice was always languid, but there was a trace ofpleading in it now. 

"It's a lovely day, " she said. "What are you doing?"

"I've been darning. "

"You! Darning!"

"I rather like it. "

"Heavens, how you've changed! I suppose you wouldn't do anything sofrivolous as to go out with me to the new house. "

Audrey hesitated. Evidently Natalie wanted to talk, to try to justifyherself. But the feeling that she was the last woman in the world to beNatalie's father-confessor was strong in her. On the other hand, therewas the question of Graham. On that, before long, she and Natalie wouldhave, in one of her own occasional lapses into slang, to go to the mat. 

"I'll come, of course, if that's an invitation. "

"I'll be around in an hour, then. "

Natalie was unusually prompt. She was nervous and excited, and was evenmore carefully dressed than usual. Over her dark blue velvet dress shewore a loose motor-coat, with a great chinchilla collar, but above itAudrey, who would have given a great deal to be able to hate her, foundher rather pathetic, a little droop to her mouth, dark circles which noveil could hide under her eyes. 

The car was in its customary resplendent condition. There were orchidsin the flower-holder, and the footman, light rug over his arm, stoodrigidly waiting at the door. 

"What a tone you and your outfit do give my little street, " Audrey said, as they started. "We have more milk-wagons than limousines, you know. "

"I don't see how you can bear it. "

Audrey smiled. "It's really rather nice, " she said. "For one thing, Ihaven't any bills. I never lived on a cash basis before. It's a sort ofemancipation. "

"Oh, bills!" said Natalie, and waved her hands despairingly. "If youcould see my desk! And the way I watch the mail so Clay won't see themfirst. They really ought to send bills in blank envelopes. "

"But you have to give them to him eventually, don't you?"

"I can choose my moment. And it is never in the morning. He's ratherawful in the morning. "

"Awful?"

"Oh, not ugly. Just quiet. I hate a man who doesn't talk in themornings. But then, for months, he hasn't really talked at all. That'swhy"--she was rather breathless--"that's why I went out with Rodney lastnight. "

"I don't think Clayton would mind, if you told him first. It's your ownaffair, of course, but it doesn't seem quite fair to him. "

"Oh, of course you'd side with him. Women always side with the husband. "

"I don't 'side' with any one, " Audrey protested. "But I am sure, if herealized that you are lonely--"

Suddenly she realized that Natalie was crying. Not much, but enough toforce her, to dab her eyes carefully through her veil. 

"I'm awfully unhappy, Audrey, " she said. "Everything's wrong, and Idon't know why. What have I done? I try and try and things just getworse. "

Audrey was very uncomfortable. She had a guilty feeling that the wholesituation, with Natalie pouring out her woes beside her, was indelicate, unbearable. 

"But if Clay--" she began. 

"Clay! He's absolutely ungrateful. He takes me for granted, and thehouse for granted. Everything. And if he knows I want a thing, hedisapproves at once. I think sometimes he takes a vicious pleasure inthwarting me. "

But as she did not go on, Audrey said nothing. Natalie had raised herveil, and from a gold vanity-case was repairing the damages around hereyes. 

"Why don't you find something to do, something to interest you?" Audreysuggested finally. 

But Natalie poured out a list of duties that lasted for the last threemiles of the trip, ending with the new house. 

"Even that has ceased to be a satisfaction, " she finished. "Claytonwants to stop work on it, and cut down all the estimates. It's tooawful. First he told me to get anything I liked, and now he says to cutdown to nothing. I could just shriek about it. "

"Perhaps that's because we are in the war, now. "

"War or no war, we have to live, don't we? And he thinks I ought to dowithout the extra man for the car, and the second man in the house, andheaven alone knows what. I'm at the end of my patience. "

Audrey made a resolution. After all, what mattered was that thingsshould be more tolerable for Clayton. She turned to Natalie. 

"Why don't you try to do what he wants, Natalie? He must have a reasonfor asking you. And it would please him a lot. "

"If I start making concession, I can just keep it up. He's like that. "

"He's so awfully fine, Natalie. He's--well, he's rather big. Andsometimes I think, if you just tried, he wouldn't be so hard to please. He probably wants peace and happiness?"

"Happiness!" Natalie's voice was high. "That sounds like Clay. Happiness! Don't you suppose I want to be happy?"

"Not enough to work for it, " said Audrey, evenly. 

Natalie turned and stared at her. 

"I believe you're half in love with Clay yourself!"

"Perhaps I am. "

But she smiled frankly into Natalie's eyes. 

"I know if I were married to him, I'd try to do what he wanted. "

"You'd try it for a year. Then you'd give it up. It's one thing toadmire a man. It's quite different being married to him, and having toput up with all sorts of things?"

Her voice trailed off before the dark vision of her domestic, unhappiness. And again, as with Graham and his father, it was what shedid not say that counted. Audrey came close to hating her just then. 

So far the conversation had not touched on Graham, and now they wereturning in the new drive. Already the lawns Were showing green, andextensive plantings of shrubbery were putting out their pale new buds. Audrey, bending forward in the car, found it very lovely, and becauseit belonged to Clay, was to be his home, it thrilled her, just as thetowering furnaces of his mill thrilled her, the lines of men leaving atnightfall. It was his, therefore it was significant. 

The house amazed her. Even Natalie's enthusiasm had not promisedanything so stately or so vast. Moving behind her through great emptyrooms, to the sound of incessant hammering, over which Natalie's voicewas raised shrilly, she was forced to confess that, between them, Natalie and Rodney had made a lovely thing. She felt no jealousy whenshe contrasted it with her own small apartment. She even felt that itwas the sort of house Clayton should have. 

For, although it had been designed as a setting for Natalie, althoughevery color-scheme, almost every chair, had been bought with a view toforming a background for her, it was too big, too massive. It dwarfedher. Out-of-doors, Audrey lost that feeling. In the formal gardenNatalie was charmingly framed. It was like her, beautifully exact, carefully planned, already with its spring borders faintly glowing. 

Natalie cheered in her approval. 

"You're so comforting, " she said. "Clay thinks it isn't homelike. Hesays it's a show place--which it ought to be. It cost enough--and hehates show places. He really ought to have a cottage. Now let's see theswimming-pool. "

But at the pool she lost her gayety. The cement basin, still empty, gleamed white in the sun, and Natalie, suddenly brooding, stood besideit staring absently into it. 

"It was for Graham, " she said at last. "We were going to have week-endparties, and all sorts of young people. But now!"

"What about now?"

Natalie raised tragic eyes to hers. 

"He's probably going into the army. He'd have never thought of it, butClayton shows in every possible way that he thinks he ought to go. Whatis the boy to do? His father driving him to what may be his death!"

"I don't think he'd do that, Natalie. "

Natalie laughed, her little mirthless laugh. 

"Much you know what his father would do! I'll tell you this, Audrey. If Graham goes, and anything--happens to him, I'll never forgive Clay. Never. "

Audrey had not suspected such depths of feeling as Natalie's eyesshowed under their penciled brows. They were desperate, vindictive eyes. Suddenly Natalie was pleading with her. 

"You'll talk to Clay, won't you? He'll listen to you. He has a lot ofrespect for your opinion. I want you to go to him, Audrey. I brought youhere to ask you. I'm almost out of my mind. Why do you suppose I playaround with Rodney? I've got to forget, that's all. And I've triedeverything I know, and failed. He'll go, and I'll lose him, and if I doit will kill me. "

"It doesn't follow that because he goes he won't come back. "

"He'll be in danger. I shall be worrying about him every moment. " Shethrew out her hands in what was as unrestrained a gesture as she evermade. "Look at me!" she cried. "I'm getting old under it. I have linesabout my eyes already. I hate to look at myself in the morning. And I'mnot old. I ought to be at my best now. "

Natalie's anxiety was for Graham, but her pity was for herself. Audrey'sheart hardened. 

"I'm sorry, " she said. "I can't go to Clay. I feel as I think he does. If Graham wants to go, he should be free to do it. You're only hurtinghim, and your influence on him, by holding him back. "

"You've never had a child. "

"If I had, and he wanted to go, I should be terrified, but I should beproud. "

"You and Clay! You even talk alike. It's all a pose, this exaltedattitude. Even this war is a pose. It's a national attitude we'vestruck, a great nation going to rescue humanity, while the rest of theworld looks on and applauds! It makes me ill. "

She turned and went back to the house, leaving Audrey by theswimming-pool. She sat on the edge of one of the stone benches, feelingutterly dreary and sad. To make a sacrifice for a worthy object was onething. To throw away a life's happiness for a spoiled, petulant womanwas another. It was too high a price to pay. Mingled with her depressionwas pity for Clayton; for all the years that he had lived with thiswoman: and pride in him, that he had never betrayed his disillusion. 

After a time she saw the car waiting, and she went slowly back to thehouse. Natalie was already inside, and she made no apologies whatever. The drive back was difficult. Natalie openly sulked, replied inmonosyllables, made no effort herself until they were in the city again. Then she said, "I'm sorry I asked you to speak to Clay. Of course youneedn't do it. "

"Not if it is to do what you said. But I wish you wouldn't misunderstandme, Natalie. I'm awfully sorry. We just think differently. "

"We certainly do, " said Natalie briefly. And that was her good-by. 

CHAPTER XXXVII

When Clayton had returned from Washington, one of the first problems putup to him had been Herman Klein's application to be taken on again. Hefound Hutchinson in favor of it. 

"He doesn't say much, " he said. "Never did. But I gather things arechanged, now we are in the war ourselves. "

"I suppose we need him. "

"You bet we need him. "

For the problem of skilled labor was already a grave one. 

Clayton was doubtful. If he could have conferred with Dunbar he wouldhave felt more comfortable, but Dunbar was away on some mysteriouserrand connected with the Military Intelligence Department. He satconsidering, tapping on his desk with the handle of his pen. Of coursethings were different now. A good many Germans whose sympathies had, as between the Fatherland and the Allies, been with Germany, were nowdriven to a decision between the land they had left and the land theyhad adopted. And behind Herman there were thirty years of good record. 

"Where is the daughter?"

"I don't know. She left some weeks ago. It's talk around the plant thathe beat her up, and she got out. Those Germans don't know the firstthing about how to treat women. "

"Then she is not in Weaver's office?"

There was more talk in the offices than Hutchinson repeated. Graham'sfondness for Anna, her slavish devotion to him, had been pretty wellrecognized. He wondered if Clayton knew anything about it, or thefurther gossip that Graham knew where Anna Klein had been hiding. 

"What about Rudolph Klein? He was a nephew, wasn't he?"

"Fired, " said Hutchinson laconically. "Got to spreading the brotherhoodof the world idea--sweat brothers, he calls them. But he was mightycareful never to get in a perspiration himself. "

"We might try Herman again. But I'd keep an eye on him. "

So Herman was taken on at the new munition plant. He was a citizen, he owned property, he had a record of long service behind him. And, atfirst, he was minded to preserve that record intact. While he had bynow added to his rage against the Fatherland's enemies a vast and sullenfury against invested capital, his German caution still remained. 

He would sit through fiery denunciations of wealth, nodding his headslowly in agreement. He was perfectly aware that in Gus's little backroom dark plots were hatched. Indeed, on a certain April night Rudolphhad come up and called him onto the porch. 

"In about fifteen minutes, " he said, consulting his watch in thedoorway, "I'm going to show you something pretty. "

And in fifteen minutes to the dot the great railroad warehouses near thecity wharf had burst into flames. Herman had watched without comment, while Rudolph talked incessantly, boasting of his share in theenterprise. 

"About a million dollars' worth of fireworks there, " he said, as theglare dyed their faces red. "All stuff for the Allies. " And he boasted, "When the cat sits on the pickhandle, brass buttons must go. "

By that time Herman knew that the "cat" meant sabotage. He had noddedslowly. 

"But it is dangerous, " was his later comment. "Sometimes they willlearn, and then?"

His caution had exasperated Rudolph almost to frenzy. And as time wenton, and one man after another of the organization was ferreted out atthe new plant and dismissed, the sole remaining hope of the organizationwas Herman. With his reinstatement their hopes had risen again, but toevery suggestion so far he had been deaf. He would listen approvingly, but at the end, when he found the talk veering his way, and a circle ofintent faces watching him, he would say:

"It is too dangerous. And it is a young man's work. I am not young. "

Then he would pay his score, but never by any chance Rudolph's or theothers, and go home to his empty house. But recently the plant had goneon double turn, and Herman was soon to go on at night. Here wasthe gang's opportunity. Everything was ready but Herman himself. Hecontinued interested, but impersonal. For the sake of the Fatherland hewas willing to have the plant go, and to lose his work. He was not atall daunted by the thought of the deaths that would follow. That waswar. Anything that killed and destroyed was fair in war. But he did notcare to place himself in danger. Let those young hot-heads do the work. 

Rudolph, watching him, bided his time. The ground was plowed andharrowed, ready for the seed, and Rudolph had only to find the seed. 

The night he had carried Anna into the cottage on the hill, he had foundit. 

Herman had not beaten Anna. Rudolph had carried her up to her bed, andHerman, following slowly, strap in hand, had been confronted by theyounger man in the doorway of the room where Anna lay, conscious butunmoving, on the bed. 

"You can use that thing later, " Rudolph said. "She's sick now. Betterlet her alone. "

"I will teach her to run away, " Herman muttered thickly. "She left me, her father, and threw away a good job--I--"

"You come down-stairs. I've something to say to you. "

And, after a time, Herman had followed him down, but he still clungdoggedly to the strap. 

Rudolph led the way outside, and here in the darkness he told Anna'sstory, twisted and distorted through his own warped mind, but convincingand partially true. Herman's silence began to alarm him, however, andwhen at last he rose and made for the door, Rudolph was before him. 

"What are you going to do?"

Herman said nothing, but he raised the strap and held it menacingly. 

"Get out of my way. "

"Don't be a fool, " Rudolph entreated. "You can beat her to death, andwhat do you get out of it? She'll run away again if you touch her. Putthat strap down. I'm not afraid of you. "

Their voices, raised and angry, penetrated through Anna's haze of frightand faintness. She sat up in the bed, ready to spring to the window ifshe heard steps on the stairs. When none came, but the voices, lowerednow, went on endlessly below, she slipped out of her bed and crept tothe doorway. 

Sounds traveled clearly up the narrow enclosed stairway. She stoodthere, swaying slightly, until at last her legs would no longer supporther. She crouched on the floor, a hand clutching her throat, lest shescream. And listened. 

She did not sleep at all. The night had been too full of horrors. Andshe was too ill to attempt a second flight. Besides, where could she go?Katie was not there. She could see her empty little room across, with its cot bed and tawdry dresser. Before, too, she had had Grahamsprotection to count on. Now she had nothing. 

And the voices went on. 

When she went back to bed it was almost dawn. She heard Herman comeup, heard the heavy thump of his shoes on the floor, and the creakimmediately following that showed he had lain down without undressing. By the absence of his resonant snoring she knew he was not sleeping, either. She pictured him lying there, his eyes on the door, in almostunwinking espionage. 

At half past six she got up and went down-stairs. Almost immediately sheheard his stockinged feet behind her. She turned and looked up at him. 

"What are you going to do?"

"Going to make myself some coffee. "

He came down, and sat down in the sitting-room. From where he sat hecould survey the kitchen, and she knew his eyes were on her. His veryquiet terrified her, but although the strap lay on the table he made nomove toward it. She built a fire and put on the kettle, and after a timeshe brought him some coffee and some bread. He took it without a word. Sick as she was, she fell to cleaning up the dirty kitchen. She wentoutside for a pail, to find him behind her in the doorway. Then sheknew what he intended to do. He was afraid, for some reason, to beat heragain, but he was going to watch her lest again she make her escape. Thesilence, under his heavy gaze, was intolerable. 

All day she worked, and only once did Herman lose sight of her. Thatwas when he took a ladder, and outside the house nailed all theupper windows shut. He did it with German thoroughness, hammeringdeliberately, placing his nails carefully. After that he went to thecorner grocery, but before he went he spoke the first words of the day. 

"You will go to your room. "

She went, and he locked her in. She knew then that she was a prisoner. When he was at the mill at night, while he slept during the day, she wasto be locked up in her stuffy, airless room. When he was about she woulddo the housework, always under his silent, contemptuous gaze. 

She made one appeal to him, and only one, and that was to his cupidity. 

"I've been sick, but I'm able to work now, father. "

He paid no attention to her. 

"If you lock me up and don't let me work, " she persisted, "you'll onlybe cutting off your nose to spite your face. I make good money, and youknow it. "

She thought he was going to speak then, but he did not. She put his foodon the table and he ate gluttonously, as he always did. She did not sitdown. She drank a little coffee, standing at the stove, and watched theback of his head with hate in her eyes. He could eat like that, when hestood committed to a terrible thing!

It was not until late in the day that it began to dawn on her how shewas responsible. She was getting stronger then and more able to think. She followed as best she could the events of the last months, and shesaw that, as surely as though a malevolent power had arranged it, thething was the result of her infatuation for Graham. 

She was in despair, and she began to plan how to get word to Graham ofwhat was impending. She scrawled a note to Graham, telling him where shewas and to try to get in touch with her somehow. If he would come aroundfour o'clock Herman was generally up and off to the grocer's, or toGus's saloon for his afternoon beer. 

"I'll break a window and talk to you, " she wrote. "I'm locked in whenhe's out. My window is on the north side. Don't lose any time. There'ssomething terrible going to happen. "

But several days went by and the postman did not appear. Herman had puta padlock on the outside of her bedroom door, and her hope of finding asecond key to fit the door-lock died then. 

It had become a silent, bitter contest between the two of them, with twoadvantages in favor of the girl. She was more intelligent than Herman, and she knew the thing he was planning to do. She made a careful surveyof her room, and she saw that with a screw-driver she could unfasten thehinge of her bedroom door. Herman, however, always kept his tools lockedup. She managed, apparently by accident, to break the point off a knife, and when she went up to her room one afternoon to be locked in whileHerman went to Gus's saloon, she carried the knife in her stocking. 

It was a sorry tool, however. Driven by her shaking hand, there was atime when she almost despaired. And time was flying. The postman, whenhe came, came at five, and she heard the kitchen clock strike fivebefore the first screw fell out into her hand. She got them all outfinally, and the door hung crazily, held only by the padlock. She ranto the window. The postman was coming along the street, and she hammeredmadly at the glass. When he saw her he turned in at the gate, and shegot her letter and ran down the stairs. 

She heard his step on the porch outside, and called to him. 

"Is that you, Briggs?"

The postman was "Briggs" to the hill. 

"Yes. "

"If I slide a letter out under the door, will you take it to thepost-office for me? It's important. "

"All right. Slide. "

She had put it partially under the door when a doubt crept into hermind. That was not Briggs's voice. She made a frantic effort to draw theletter back, but stronger fingers than hers had it beyond the door. Sheclutched, held tight. Then she heard a chuckle, and found herself with acorner of the envelope in her hand. 

There were voices outside, Briggs's and Rudolph's. 

"Guess that's for me. "

"Like hell it is. "

She ran madly up the stairs again, and tried with shaking fingers toscrew the door-hinges into place again. She fully expected that theywould kill her. She heard Briggs go out, and after a time she heardRudolph trying to kick in the house door. Then, when the last screwwas back in place, she heard Herman's heavy step outside, and Rudolph'svoice, high, furious, and insistent. 

Had Herman not been obsessed with the thing he was to do, he might havebeaten her to death that night. But he did not. She remained in herroom, without food or water. She had made up her mind to kill herselfwith the knife if they came up after her, but the only sounds she heardwere of high voices, growing lower and more sinister. 

After that, for days she was a prisoner. Herman moved his beddown-stairs and slept in the sitting-room, the five or six hours ofday-light sleep which were all he required. And at night, while he wasat the mill, Rudolph sat and dozed and kept watch below. Twice a daysome meager provisions were left at the top of the stairs and her doorwas unlocked. She would creep out and get them, not because she washungry, but because she meant to keep up her strength. Let theirvigilance slip but once, and she meant to be ready. 

She learned to interpret every sound below. There were times when thefumes from burning food came up the staircase and almost smothered her. And there were times, she fancied, when Herman weakened and Rudolphtalked for hours, inciting and inflaming him again. She gathered, too, that Gus's place was under surveillance, and more than once in themiddle of the night stealthy figures came in by the garden gate andconferred with Rudolph down-stairs. Then, one evening, in the duskof the May twilight, she saw three of them come, one rather tall andmilitary of figure, and one of them carried, very carefully, a cheapsuitcase. 

She knew what was in that suitcase. 

CHAPTER XXXVIII

One morning, in his mail, Clayton Spencer received a clipping. It hadbeen cut from a so-called society journal, and it was clamped to theprospectus of a firm of private detectives who gave information fordivorce cases as their specialty. 

First curiously, then with mounting anger, Clayton read that the wifeof a prominent munition manufacturer was being seen constantly in outof the way places with the young architect who was building a palace forher out of the profiteer's new wealth. "It is quite probable, " ended thenotice, "that the episode will end in an explosion louder than the bestshell the husband in the case ever turned out. "

Clayton did not believe the thing for a moment. He was infuriated, but mostly with the journal, and with the insulting inference of theprospectus. He had a momentary clear vision, however, of Natalie, ofher idle days, of perhaps a futile last clutch at youth. He had no moredoubt of her essential integrity than of his own. But he had a verydistinct feeling that she had exposed his name to cheap scandal, andthat for nothing. 

Had there been anything real behind it, he might have understood, inhis new humility, in his new knowledge of impulses stronger thanany restraints of society, he would quite certainly have made everyallowance. But for a whim, an indulgence of her incorrigible vanity! Toget along, to save Natalie herself, he was stifling the best that was inhim, while Natalie--

That was one view of it. The other was that Natalie was as starved ashe was. If he got nothing from her, he gave her nothing. How was he toblame her? She was straying along dangerous paths, but he himself hadstood at the edge of the precipice, and looked down. 

Suddenly it occurred to him that perhaps, for once, Natalie was inearnest. Perhaps Rodney was, too. Perhaps each of them had at lastfound something that loomed larger than themselves. In that case? Buteverything he knew of Natalie contradicted that. She was not a woman tocount anything well lost for love. She was playing with his honor, withRodney, with her own vanity. 

Going up-town that night he pondered the question of how to take up thematter with her. It would be absurd, under the circumstances, to takeany virtuous attitude. He was still undetermined when he reached thehouse. 

He found Marion Hayden there for dinner, and Graham, and a spiritedthree-corner discussion going on which ceased when he stood in thedoorway. Natalie looked irritated, Graham determined, and Marion wasslightly insolent and unusually handsome. 

"Hurry and change, Clay, " Natalie said. "Dinner is waiting. "

As he went away he had again the feeling of being shut out of somethingwhich concerned Graham. 

Dinner was difficult. Natalie was obviously sulking, and Graham wasrather taciturn. It was Marion who kept the conversation going, and hesurmised in her a repressed excitement, a certain triumph. 

At last Natalie roused herself. The meal was almost over, and theservants had withdrawn. 

"I wish you would talk sense to Graham, Clay, " she said, fretfully. "Ithink he has gone mad. "

"I don't call it going mad to want to enlist, father. "

"I do. With your father needing you, and with all the men there are whocan go. "

"I don't understand. If he wants to enter the army, that's up to him, isn't it?"

There was a brief silence. Clayton found Natalie's eyes on him, uneasy, resentful. 

"That's just it. I've promised mother not to, unless she gives herconsent. And she won't give it. "

"I certainly will not. "

Clayton saw her appealing glance at Marion, but that young lady waslighting a cigaret, her eyelids lowered. He felt as though he werewatching a play, in which he was the audience. 

"It's rather a family affair, isn't it?" he asked. "Suppose we waituntil we are alone. After all, there is no hurry. "

Marion looked at him, and he caught a resentment in her glance. The twoglances struck fire. 

"Say something, Marion, " Natalie implored her. 

"I don't think my opinion is of any particular importance. As Mr. Spencer says, it's really a family matter. "

Her insolence was gone. Marion was easy. She knew Natalie's game; itwas like her own. But this big square-jawed man at the head of the tablefrightened her. And he hated her. He hardly troubled to hide it, for allhis civility. Even that civility was contemptuous. 

In the drawing-room things were little better. Natalie had counted onMarion's cooperation, and she had failed her. She pleaded a headache andwent up-stairs, leaving Clayton to play the host as best he could. 

Marion wandered into the music-room, with its bare polished floor, itslovely painted piano, and played a little--gay, charming little things, clever and artful. Except when visitors came, the piano was nevertouched, but now and then Clayton had visualized Audrey there, singingin her husky sweet voice her little French songs. 

Graham moved restlessly about the room, and Clayton felt that he hadaltered lately. He looked older, and not happy. He knew the boy wantedto talk about Natalie's opposition, but was hoping that he would broachthe subject. And Clayton rather grimly refused to do it. Those nextweeks would show how much of the man there was in Graham, but thestruggle must be between his mother and himself. 

He paused, finally. 

Marion was singing. 

 "Give me your love for a day; A night; an hour. If the wages of sin are Death I'm willing to pay. "

She sang it in her clear passionless voice. Brave words, Claytonthought, but there were few who would pay such wages. This girl at thepiano, what did she know of the thing she sang about? What did any ofthe young know?

They always construed love in terms of passion. But passion wasephemeral. Love lived on. Passion took, but love gave. 

He roused himself. 

"Have you told Marion about the new arrangement?"

"I didn't know whether you cared to have it told. "

"Don't you think she ought to know? If she intends to enter the family, she has a right to know that she is not marrying into great wealth. Idon't suggest, " he added, as Graham colored hotly, "that it will makeany difference. I merely feel she ought to know your circumstances. "

He was called to the telephone, and when he came back he found them inearnest conversation. The girl turned toward him smiling. 

"Graham has just told me. You are splendid, Mr. Spencer. "

And afterward Clayton was forced to admit an element of sincerity inher voice. She had had a disappointment, but she was very game. Heradmiration surprised him. He was nearer to liking her than he had everbeen. 

Even her succeeding words did not quite kill his admiration for her. 

"And I have told Graham that he must not let you make all thesacrifices. Of course he is going to enlist. "

She had turned her defeat into a triumph against Natalie. Clayton knewthen that she would never marry Graham. As she went out he followed herwith a faint smile of tribute. 

The smile died as he turned to go up the stairs. 

Natalie was in her dressing-room. She had not undressed, but wasstanding by a window. She made no sign that she heard him enter, and hehesitated. Why try to talk things out with her? Why hurt her? Why notlet things drift along? There was no hope of bettering them. One oftwo things he must do, either tear open the situation between them, orignore it. 

"Can I get anything for your head, my dear?"

"I haven't any headache. "

"Then I think I'll go to bed. I didn't sleep much last night. "

He was going out when she spoke again. 

"I came up-stairs because I saw how things were going. "

"Do you really want to go into that, to-night?"

"Why not to-night? We'll have to go into it soon enough. "

Yet when she turned to him he saw the real distress in her face, and hisanger died. 

"I didn't want to hurt you, Natalie. I honestly tried. But you know howI feel about that girl. "

"Even the servants know it. It is quite evident. "

"We parted quite amiably. "

"I dare say! You were relieved that she was going. If you would only beordinarily civil to her--oh, don't you see? She could keep Graham fromgoing into this idiotic war. You can't. I can't. I've tried everything Iknow. And she knows she can. She's--hateful about it. "

"And you would marry him to that sort of a girl?"

"I'd keep him from being blinded, or mutilated, or being killed. "

"You can kill his soul. "

"His soul!" She burst into hysterical laughter. "You to talk aboutsouls! That's--that's funny. "

"Natalie, dear. " He was very grave, very gentle. "Has it occurred to youthat we are hitting it off rather badly lately?"

She looked at him quickly. 

"How? Because I don't think as you do? We got on well enough before thiswar came along. "

"Do you think it is only that?"

"If it's the house, just remember you gave me carte blanche there. "

He made a little gesture of despair. 

"I just thought perhaps you are not as happy as you might be. "

"Happiness again! Did you come up-stairs to-night, with this thinghanging over us, to talk about happiness? That's funny, too. " But hereyes were suddenly suspicious. There was something strange in his voice. 

"Let's forget that for a moment. Graham will make his own decision. But, before we leave that, let me tell you that I love him as much as you do. His going means exactly as much. It's only--"

"Another point we differ on, " she finished for him. "Go on. You aresuddenly concerned about my happiness. I'm touched, Clay. You have leftme all winter to go out alone, or with anybody who might be sorry enoughfor me to pick me up, and now?" Suddenly her eyes sharpened, and shedrew her breath quickly. "You've seen that scandalous thing in thepaper!"

"It was sent to me. "

"Who sent it?"

"A firm of private detectives. "

She was frightened, and the terror in her face brought him to herquickly. 

"Natalie! Don't look like that! I don't believe it, of course. It'sstupid. I wasn't going to tell you. You don't think I believe it, doyou?"

She let him put an arm around her and hold her, as he would a scaredchild. There was no love for her in it, but a great pity, and acuteremorse that he could hold her so and care for her so little. 

"Oh, Clay!" she gasped. "I've been perfectly sick about it!"

His conviction of his own failure to her made him very tender. He talkedto her, as she stood with her face buried in the shoulder of his coat, of the absurdity of her fear, of his own understanding, and when she wascalmer he made a futile effort to make his position clear. 

"I am not angry, " he said. "And I'm not fudging you in any way. But youknow how things are between us. We have been drifting apart for rathera long time. It's not your fault. Perhaps it is mine. Probably it is. I know I don't make you happy. And sometimes I think things have eithergot to be better or worse. "

"If I'm willing to go along as we are, I think you should be. "

"Then let's try to get a little happiness out of it all, Natalie. "

"Oh, happiness! You are always raving about happiness. There isn't anysuch thing. "

"Peace, then. Let's have peace, Natalie. "

She drew back, regarding him. 

"What did you mean by things having to be better or worse?"

When he found no immediate answer, she was uneasy. The prospect of anychange in their relationship frightened her. Like all weak women, shewas afraid of change. Her life suited her. Even her misery she loved andfed on. She had pitied herself always. Not love, but fear of change, lay behind her shallow, anxious eyes. Yet he could not hurt her. She hadbeen foolish, but she had not been wicked. In his new humility he foundher infinitely better than himself. 

"I spoke without thinking. "

"Then it must have been in your mind. Let me see the clipping, Clay. I've tried to forget what it said. "

She took it, still pinned to the prospectus, and bent over them both. When she had examined them, she continued to stand with lowered eyelids, turning and crumpling them. Then she looked up. 

"So that is what you meant! It was a--well, a sort of a threat. "

"I had no intention of threatening you, my dear. You ought to know mebetter. That clipping was sent me attached to the slip. The only reasonI let you see it was because I think you ought to know how the mostinnocent things are misconstrued. "

"You couldn't divorce me if you wanted to. " Then her defiance faded ina weak terror. She began to cry, shameless frightened tears that rolleddown her cheeks. She reminded him that she was the mother of his child, that she had sacrificed her life to both of them, and that now theywould both leave her and turn her adrift. She had served her purpose, now let her go. 

Utter hopelessness kept him dumb. He knew of old that she would cryuntil she was ready to stop, or until she had gained her point. And heknew, too, that she expected him to put his arms around her again, intoken of his complete surrender. The very fact hardened him. He did notwant to put his arms around her. He wanted, indeed, to get out into theopen air and walk off his exasperation. The scent in the room stifledhim. 

When he made no move toward her she gradually stopped crying, and gaveway to the rage that was often behind her tears. 

"Just try to divorce me, and see!"

"Good God, I haven't even mentioned divorce. I only said we must try toget along better. To agree. "

"Which means, I dare say, that I am to agree with you!" But she hadone weapon still. Suddenly she smiled a little wistfully, and made theapparently complete surrender that always disarmed him. 

"I'll be good from now on, Clay. I'll be very, very good. Only--don't bealways criticizing me. "

She held up her lips, and after a second's hesitation he kissed her. Heknew he was precisely where he had been when he started, and he had ahopeless sense of the futility of the effort he had made. Natalie hadgot by with a bad half-hour, and would proceed to forget it as quicklyas she always forgot anything disagreeable. Still, she was in a morereceptive mood than usual, and he wondered if that would not be as gooda time as any to speak about his new plan as to the mill. He took anuneasy turn or two about the room, feeling her eyes on him. 

"There is something else, Natalie. "

She had relaxed like a kitten in her big chair, and was lighting one ofthe small, gilt-tipped cigarets she affected. 

"About Graham?"

"It affects Graham. It affects us all. "

"Yes?"

He hesitated. To talk to Natalie about business meant reducing it to itsmost elemental form. 

"Have you ever thought that this war of ours means more than merelyraising armies?"

"I haven't thought about this war at all. It's too absurd. A lot ofpoliticians?" She shrugged her shoulders. 

"It means a great deal of money. "

"'Well, the country is rich, isn't it?"

"The country? That means the people. "

"I knew we'd get to money sooner or later, " she observed, resignedly. "All right. We'll be taxed, so we'll cut down on the country house--goon. I can say it before you do. But don't say we'll have to do withoutthe greenhouses, because we can't. "

"We may have to go without more than greenhouses. "

His tone made her sit bolt upright. Then she laughed a little. 

"Poor old Clay, " she said, with the caressing tone she used when shemeant to make no concession. "I do spend money, don't I? But I do makeyou comfortable, you know. And what is what I spend, compared with whatyou are making?"

"It's just that. I don't think I can consistently go on making a profiton this war, now that we are in it. "

He explained then what he meant, and watched her face set into thehard lines he knew so well. But she listened to the end and when he hadfinished she said nothing. 

"Well?" he said. 

"I don't think you have the remotest idea of doing it. You like to playat the heroic. You can see yourself doing it, and every one pointingto you as the man who threw away a fortune. But you are humbuggingyourself. You'll never do it. I give you credit for too much sense. "

He went rather white. She knew the weakness in his armor, his hatred ofanything theatrical, and with unfailing accuracy she always pierced it. 

"Suppose I tell you I have already offered the plant to the government, at a nominal profit. "

Suddenly she got up, and every vestige of softness was gone. 

"I don't think you would be such a fool. "

"I have done it. "

"Then you are insane. There is no other possible explanation. "

She passed him, moving swiftly, and went into her bedroom. He heard herlock the door behind her. 

CHAPTER XXXIX

Audrey had made a resolution, and with characteristic energy hadproceeded to carry it out. She was no longer needed at the recruitingstations. After a month's debate the conscription law was about to bepassed, made certain by the frank statement of the British Commissionunder Balfour as to the urgency of the need of a vast new army inFrance. 

For the first time the Allies laid their cards face up on the table, andAmerica realized to what she was committed. Almost overnight a potentialarmy of hundreds of thousands was changing to one of millions. Thesituation was desperate. Germany had more men than the Allies, and hadvast eastern resources to draw on for still more. To the Allies only theuntapped resources of America remained. 

In private conference with the President Mr. Balfour had urged haste, and yet more haste. 

Audrey, reading her newspapers faithfully, felt with her exaltation alittle stirring of regret. Her occupation, such as it was, was gone. Forthe thin stream of men flowing toward the recruiting stations there wasnow to be a vast movement of the young manhood of the nation. And shecould have no place in it. 

Almost immediately she set to work to find herself a new place. At firstthere seemed to be none. She went to a hospital, and offered her strongbody and her two willing hands for training. 

"I could learn quickly, " she pleaded, "and surely there will not beenough nurses for such an army as we are to have. "

"Our regular course is three years. "

"But a special course. Surely I may have that. There are so many thingsone won't need in France. "

The head of the training school smiled rather wistfully. They came toher so often now, these intelligent, untrained women, all eagerness tohelp, to forget and unlive, if they could, their wasted lives. 

"You want to go to France, of course?"

"If I can. My husband was killed over there. "

But she did not intend to make capital of Chris's death. "Of course, that has nothing to do with my going. I simply want to work. "

"It's hard work. Not romantic. "

"I am not looking for romance. "

In the end, however, she had to give it up. In some hospitals they werealready training nurses helpers, but they were to relieve trained womenfor France. She went home to think it over. She had felt that by leavingthe country she would solve Clayton's problem and her own. To stay on, seeing him now and then, was torture for them both. 

But there was something else. She had begun, that afternoon, to doubtwhether she was fitted for nursing after all. The quiet of the hospital, the all-pervading odor of drugs, the subdued voice and quiet eyes of thehead of the training school, as of one who had looked on life and foundit infinitely sad, depressed her. She had walked home, impatient withherself, disappointed in her own failure. She thought dismally:

"I am of no earthly use. I've played all my life, and now I'm paying forit. I ought to. " And she ran over her pitiful accomplishments: "golf, bridge, ride, shoot, swim, sing (a little), dance, tennis, someFrench--what a sickening list!"

She was glad that day to find Clare Gould waiting for her. As usual, thegirl had brought her tribute, this time some early strawberries. Audreyfound her in the pantry arranging their leaves in a shallow dish. 

"Clare!" she said. "Aren't you working?"

"I've gone on night-turn now. "

The girl's admiration salved her wounded pride in herself. Then she saw, on a table, an envelope with her name on it. Clare's eyes followed hers. 

"That's the rest of the money, Mrs. Valentine. "

She colored, but Audrey only smiled at her. 

"Fine!" she said. "Are you sure you can spare it?"

"I couldn't rest until it was all paid up. And I'm getting along fine. Imake a lot, really. "

"Tell me about the night work. "

"We've gone on double turn. I rather like it at night. It's--well, it'slike something on the stage. The sparks fly from the lathes, and theylook like fireworks. And when they hammer on hot metal it's lovely. "

She talked on, incoherent but glowing. She liked her big turret lathe. It gave her a sense of power. She liked to see the rough metal growingsmooth and shining like silver under her hands. She was naively pleasedthat she was doing a man's work, and doing it well. 

Audrey leaned back in her chair and listened. All this that Clare wastalking about was Clayton's doing. He at least had dreamed true. He wasdoing a man's part, too, in the war. Even this girl, whose hand NatalieSpencer would not have touched, this girl was dreaming true. 

Clare was still talking. The draft would be hard on the plant. They wereshort-handed now. There was talk of taking in more girls to replace themen who would be called. 

"Do you think I could operate a lathe, Clare?"

"You! Why, Mrs. Valentine, it's not work for a lady! Look at my hands. "

But Audrey made an impatient gesture. 

"I don't care about my hands. The question is, could I do it? I don'tseem able to do anything else. "

"Why, yes. " Clare was reluctant. "I can, and you're a lot cleverer thanI am. But it's hard. It's rough, and some of the talk--oh, I hope youdon't mean it, Mrs. Valentine. "

Audrey, however, was meaning it. It seemed to her, all at once, the wayout. Here was work, needed work. Work that she could do. For the firsttime in months she blessed the golf and riding that had kept her fit. 

"Mr. Spencer is a friend of yours. He'll never let you do it. "

"He is not to know, Clare, " Audrey said briskly. "You are quite right. He would probably be very--mannish about it. So we won't tell him. Andnow, how shall I go about getting in? Will they teach me, or shall Ihave to lust learn? And whatever shall I wear?"

Clare explained while, for she was determined not to lose a minute, Audrey changed into her plainest clothes. They would be in time, if theyhurried, before the employment department closed. There were women incharge there. They card-indexed you, and then you were investigated bythe secret service and if you were all right, well, that was all. 

"Mercy! It's enough, " said Audrey, impatiently. "Do you mean to saythey'll come here?"

She glanced around her rooms, littered with photographs of people wellknown to the public through the society journals, with its high brightsilver vases, its odd gifts of porcelain, its grand piano taking up morethan its share of room. 

"If they come here, " she deliberated, "they won't take me, Clare. They'll be thinking I'm living on German money!"

So, in the end, she did not go to the munition works. She wentroom-hunting instead, with Clare beside her, very uncomfortable on thestreet for fear Audrey would be compromised by walking with her. And atsix o'clock that evening a young woman with a softly inflected voice andan air of almost humorous enjoyment of something the landlady failedto grasp, was the tenant, for one month's rent in advance, of a room onSouth Perry Street. 

Clare was almost in tears. 

"I can't bear to think of your sleeping in that bed, Mrs. Valentine, "she protested. "It dips down so. "

"I shan't have much time to sleep, anyhow. And when I do so I shall beso tired!---What was the name I gave her, Clare?"

"Thompson. Mary Thompson. "

"She surprised me, or I'd have thought of a prettier one. " She wasabsurdly high-spirited, although the next day's ordeal rather worriedher when she thought about it. She had, oddly enough, no trepidationabout the work itself. It was passing the detectives in the employmentdepartment that worried her. As a matter of fact, however, there was noordeal. Her card was carried to the desk in the corner, where the twomen sat on whose decisions might so easily rest the safety of the entireplant, and they surveyed her carefully. Audrey looked ahead, and waited. They would come over and question her, and the whole fabric she hadbuilt would be destroyed. But nothing happened. She was told she wouldbe notified in a day or two if she would be taken on, and with that shewas forced to be content. 

She had a bad moment, however, for Graham came through the office on hisway out, and stopped for a moment directly in front of her. Her heartalmost stopped beating, and she dropped her glove and stooped to pick itup. When she sat erect again he was moving on. But even her brief glancehad showed her that the boy looked tired and depressed. 

She went to her rented room at once, for she must be prepared forinquiries about her. During the interval she arranged for the closing ofher apartment and the storing of her furniture. With their going woulddepart the last reminders of the old life, and she felt a curioussense of relief. They had little happiness to remind her of, and muchsuffering. The world had changed since she had gathered them together, and she had changed with it. She was older and sadder. But she would nothave gone back. Not for anything would she have gone back. 

She had one thing to do, however, before she disappeared. She hadpromised to try to find something for Delight, and she did it with herusual thoroughness and dispatch. She sent for her that last day in theapartment, when in the morning she had found at the Perry Street room acard telling her to report the following night. When Delight came in shefound the little apartment rather bare and rather dreary, but Audrey wascheerful, almost gay. 

"Going away for a little while, " she explained. "I've stored a lot ofstuff. And now, my dear, do you really want to work?"

"I just must do something. "

"All right. That's settled. I've got the thing I spoke about, in one ofthe officers' training-camps. But remember, Delight, this is not goingto be a romantic adventure. It's to be work. "

"I don't want a romantic adventure, Mrs. Valentine. "

"Poor little thing, " Audrey reflected to herself. And aloud: "Good! Ofcourse I know you're sincere about working. I--I understand, awfullywell. "

Delight was pleased, but Audrey saw that she was not happy. Even whenthe details had been arranged she still sat in her straight chair andmade no move to go. And Audrey felt that the next move was up to her. 

"What's the news about Graham Spencer?" she inquired. "He'll be drafted, I suppose. "

"Not if they claim exemption. He's making shells, you know. "

She lifted rather heavy eyes to Audrey's. 

"His mother is trying that now, " she said. "Ever since his engagementwas broken?"

"Oh, it was broken, was it?"

"Yes. I don't know why. But it's off. Anyhow Mrs. Spencer is tellingeverybody he can't be spared. "

"And his father?"

"I don't know. He doesn't talk about it, I think. "

"Perhaps he wants him to make his own decision. "

Delight rose and drew down her veil with hands that Audrey saw weretrembling a little. 

"How can he make his own decision?" she asked. "He may think it's hisown, but it's hers, Mrs. Spencer's. She's always talking, always. Andshe's plausible. She can make him think black is white, if she wantsto. "

"Why don't you talk to him?"

"I? He'd think I'd lost my mind! Besides, that isn't it. If you--like aman, you want him to do the right thing because he wants to, not becausea girl asks him to. "

"I wonder, " Audrey said, slowly, "if he's worth it, Delight?"

"Worth what?" She was startled. 

"Worth your--worth our worrying about him. "

But she did not need Delight's hasty and flushed championship of Grahamto tell her what she already knew. 

After she had gone, Audrey sat alone in her empty rooms and faced agreat temptation. She was taking herself out of Clayton's life. She knewthat she would be as lost to him among the thousands of workers in themunition plant as she would have been in Russia. According to Clare, herarely went into the shops themselves, and never at night. 

Of course "out of his life" was a phrase. They would meet again. Butnot now, not until they had had time to become resigned to what they hadalready accepted. The war would not last forever. And then she thoughtof their love, which had been born and had grown, always with war at itsbackground. They had gone along well enough until this winter, and theneverything had changed. Chris, Natalie, Clayton, herself--none of themwere quite what they had been. Was that one of the gains of war, thatsham fell away, and people revealed either the best or the worst inthem?

War destroyed, but it also revealed. 

The temptation was to hear Clayton's voice again. She went to thetelephone, and stood with the instrument in her hands, thinking. Wouldit comfort him? Or would it only bring her close for a moment, toemphasize her coming silence?

She put it down, and turned away. When, some time later, the taxicabcame to take her to Perry Street, she was lying on her bed in the dusk, face-down and arms outstretched, a lonely and pathetic figure, all hercourage dead for the moment, dead but for the desire to hear Clayton'svoice again before the silence closed down. 

She got up and pinned on her hat for the last time, before the mirror ofthe little inlaid dressing-table. And she smiled rather forlornly at herreflection in the glass. 

"Well, I've got the present, anyhow, " she considered. "I'm not goingeither to wallow in the past or peer into the future. I'm going towork. "

The prospect cheered her. After all, work was the great solution. It wasthe great healer, too. That was why men bore their griefs better thanwomen. They could work. 

She took a final glance around her stripped and cheerless rooms. Howreally little things mattered! All her life she had been burdened withthings. Now at last she was free of them. 

The shabby room on Perry Street called her. Work called, beckoned to herwith calloused, useful hands. She closed and locked the door and wentquietly down the stairs. 

CHAPTER XL

One day late in May, Clayton, walking up-town in lieu of the golf he hadbeen forced to abandon, met Doctor Haverford on the street, and foundhis way barred by that rather worried-looking gentleman. 

"I was just going to see you, Clayton, " he said. "About two things. I'llwalk back a few blocks with you. "

He was excited, rather exalted. 

"I'm going in, " he announced. "Regimental chaplain. I've got a year'sleave of absence. I'm rather vague about what a chaplain does, but Irather fancy he can be useful. "

"You'll get over, of course. You're lucky. And you'll find plenty todo. "

"I've been rather anxious, " Doctor Haverford confided. "I've been aclergyman so long that I don't know just how I'll measure up as a man. You know what I mean. I am making no reflection on the church. But I'vebeen sheltered and--well, I've been looked after. I don't think I amphysically brave. It would be a fine thing, " he said wryly, "if thechaplain were to turn and run under fire!"

"I shouldn't worry about that. "

"My salary is to go on. But I don't like that, either. If I hadn't afamily I wouldn't accept it. Delight thinks I shouldn't, anyhow. As amatter of fact, there ought to be no half-way measures about our givingourselves. If I had a son to give it would be different. "

Clayton looked straight ahead. He knew that the rector had, for themoment, forgotten that he had a son to give and that he had not yetgiven. 

"Why don't you accept a small allowance?" he inquired quietly. "Or, better still, why don't you let me know how much it will take and letme do it? I'd like to feel that I was represented in France--by you, " headded. 

And suddenly the rector remembered. He was most uncomfortable, and veryflushed. 

"Thanks. I can't let you do that, of course. "

"Why not?"

"Because, hang it all, Clayton, I'm not a parasite. I took the car, because it enabled me to do my parish work better. But I'm not going torun off to war and let you keep my family. "

Clayton glanced at him, at his fine erect old figure, his warmly flushedface. War did strange things. There was a new light in the rector's onceworldly if kindly eyes. He had the strained look of a man who sees greatthings, as yet far away, and who would hasten toward them. Insensibly hequickened his pace. 

"But I can't go myself, so why can't I send a proxy?"

Clayton asked, smiling. "I've an idea I'd be well represented. "

"That's a fine way to look at it, but I can't do it. I've savedsomething, not much, but it will do for a year or two. I'm glad you madethe offer, though. It was like you, and--it showed me the way. I can'tlet any man, or any group of men, finance my going. "

And he stuck to it. Clayton, having in mind those careful canvasses ofthe congregation of Saint Luke's which had every few years resulted inraising the rector's salary, was surprised and touched. After all, warwas like any other grief. It brought out the best or the worst in us. Itroused or it crushed us. 

The rector had been thinking. 

"I'm a very fortunate man, " he said, suddenly. "They're standingsquarely behind me, at home. It's the women behind the army that willmake it count, Clayton. "

Clayton said nothing. 

"Which reminds me, " went on the rector, "that I find Mrs. Valentine hasgone away. I called on her to-day, and she has given up her apartment. Do you happen to know where she is? She has left no address. "

"Gone away?" Clayton repeated. "Why, no. I hadn't heard of it. "

There in the busy street he felt a strange sense of loneliness. Always, although he did not see her, he felt her presence. She walked the samestreets. For the calling, if his extremity became too great, he couldhear her voice over the telephone. There was always the hope, too, of meeting her. Not by design. She had forbidden that. But some timesperhaps God would be good to them both, if they earned it, and theycould touch hands for a moment. 

But--gone!

"You are certain she left no address?"

"Quite certain. She has stored her furniture, I believe. "

There was a sense of hurt, then, too. She had made this decision withouttelling him. It seemed incredible. A dozen decisions a day he made, andwhen they were vital there was always in his mind the question as towhether she would approve or not. He could not go to her with them, butmentally he was always consulting with her, earning her approbation. Andshe had gone without a word. 

"Do you think she has gone to France?" He knew his voice sounded stiffand constrained. 

"I hope not. She was being so useful here. Of course, the draftlaw--amazing thing, the draft law! Never thought we'd come to it. But itthrew her out, in a way, of course. "

"What has the draft law to do with Mrs. Valentine?"

"Why, you know what she was doing, don't you?"

"I haven't seen her recently. "

The rector half-stopped. 

"Well!" he said. "Let me tell you, Clayton, that that girl has beenrecruiting men, night after night and day after day. She's done wonders. Standing in a wagon, mind you, in the slums, or anywhere; I heardher one night. By George, I went home and tore up a sermon I had beenworking on for days. "

Why hadn't he known? Why hadn't he realized that that was exactly thesort of thing she would do? There was bitterness in his heart, too. He might easily have stood unseen in the crowd, and have watched andlistened and been proud of her. Then, these last weeks, when he had beenworking, or dining out, or sitting dreary and bored in a theater, shehad been out in the streets. Ah, she lived, did Audrey. Others workedand played, but she lived. Audrey! Audrey!

"--in the rain, " the rector was saying. "But she didn't mind it. Iremember her saying to the crowd, 'It's raining over here, and maybeit's raining on the fellows in the trenches. But I tell you, I'd ratherbe over there, up to my waist in mud and water, than scurrying for adoorway here. ' They had started to run out of the shower, but at thatthey grinned and stopped. She was wonderful, Clayton. "

In the rain! And after it was over she would go home, in some crowdedbus or car, to her lonely rooms, while he rolled about the city in alimousine! It was cruel of her not to have told him, not to have allowedhim at least to see that she was warm and dry. 

"I've been very busy. I hadn't heard, " he said, slowly. "Is it--was itgenerally known?"

Had Natalie known, and kept it from him?

"I think not. Delight saw her and spoke to her, I believe. "

"And you have no idea where she is now. "

"None whatever. "

He learned that night that Natalie had known, and he surprised a littleuneasiness in her face. 

"I--heard about it, " she said. "I can't imagine her making a speech. She's not a bit oratorical. "

"We might have sent out one of the cars for her, if I'd known. "

"Oh, she was looked after well enough. "

"Looked after?"

Natalie had made an error, and knew it. 

"I heard that a young clergyman was taking her round, " she said, andchanged the subject. But he knew that she was either lying or keepingsomething from him. In those days of tension he found her half-truthsmore irritating than her rather childish falsehoods. In spite ofhimself, however, the thought of the young clergyman rankled. 

That night, stretched in the low chair in his dressing-room, under thereading light, he thought over things carefully. If he loved her as hethought he did, he ought to want her to be happy. Things between themwere hopeless and wretched. If this clergyman, or Sloane, or any otherman loved her, and he groaned as he thought how lovable she was, thenwhy not want for her such happiness as she could find?

He slept badly that night, and for some reason Audrey wove herself intohis dreams of the new plant. The roar of the machinery took on the softhuskiness of her voice, the deeper note he watched for and loved. 

CHAPTER XLI

Anna Klein stood in her small room and covered her mouth with herhands, lest she shriek aloud. She knew quite well that the bomb in thesuit-case would not suffice to blow up the whole great plant. But sheknew what the result of its explosion would be. 

The shells were not loaded at the Spencer plant. They were shipped awayfor that. But the fuses were loaded there, and in the small brick houseat the end of the fuse building there were stored masses of explosive, enough to destroy a town. It was there, of course, that Herman was toplace the bomb. She knew how he would do it, carefully, methodically, and with what a lumbering awkward gait he would make his escape. 

Her whole mind was bent on giving the alarm. On escaping, first, andthen on arousing the plant. But when the voices below continued, longafter Herman had gone, she was entirely desperate. Herman had notcarried out the suit-case. He had looked, indeed, much as usual as hewalked out the garden path and closed the gate behind him. He had walkedrather slowly, but then he always walked slowly. She seemed to see, however, a new caution in his gait, as of one who dreaded to stumble. 

She dressed herself, with shaking fingers, and pinned on her hat. The voices still went on below, monotonous, endless; the rasping ofRudolph's throat, irritated by cheap cigarets, the sound of glasses onthe table, once a laugh, guttural and mirthless. It was ten o'clock whenshe knew, by the pushing back of their chairs, that they were preparingto depart. Ten o'clock!

She was about to commence again the feverish unscrewing of the doorhinges, when she heard Rudolph's step on the stairs. She had only timeto get to the back of her room, beside the bed, when she heard him trythe knob. 

"Anna?"

She let him call her again. 

"Anna!"

"What is it?"

"You in bed?"

"Yes. Go away and let me alone. I've got a right to sleep, anyhow. "

"I'm going out, but I'll be back in ten minutes. You try any tricks andI'll get you. See?"

"You make me sick, " she retorted. 

She heard him turn and run lightly down the stairs. Only when she heardthe click of the gate did she dare to begin again at the door. She gotdown-stairs easily, but she was still a prisoner. However, she found thehigh little window into the coal-shed open, and crawled through it, tostand listening. The street was quiet. 

Once outside the yard she started to run. They would let her telephonefrom the drug-store, even without money. She had no money. But thedrug-store was closed and dark, and the threat of Rudolph's returnterrified her. She must get off the hill, somehow. 

There were still paths down the steep hill-side, dangerous things thathugged the edge of small, rocky precipices, or sloped steeply to suddenturns. But she had played over the hill all her young life. She plungeddown, slipping and falling a dozen times, and muttering, some times anoath, some times a prayer, "Oh, God, let me be in time. Oh, God, hold him up a while until I--"then a slip. "If I fall now--"

Only when she was down in the mill district did she try to make anyplan. It was almost eleven then, and her ears were tense with listeningfor the sound she dreaded. She faced her situation, then. She could nottelephone from a private house, either to the mill or to the Spencerhouse, what she feared, and the pay-booths of the telephone companydemanded cash in advance. She was incapable of clear thought, or shewould have found some way out, undoubtedly. What she did, in the end, was to board an up-town car and throw herself on the mercy of theconductor. 

"I've got to get up-town, " she panted. "I'll not go in. See? I'll standhere and you take me as far as you can. Look at me! I don't look asthough I'm just bumming a ride, do I?"

The conductor hesitated. He had very little faith in human nature, butAnna's eyes were both truthful and desperate. He gave the signal to goon. 

"What's up?" he said. "Police after you?"

"Yes, " Anna replied briefly. 

There is, in certain ranks, a tacit conspiracy against the police. Theconductor hated them. They rode free on his car, and sometimes kept aneye on him in the rush hours. They had a way, too, of letting him settlehis own disputes with inebriated gentlemen who refused to pay theirfares. 

"Looks as though they'd come pretty close to grabbing you, " he opened, by way of conversation. "But ten of 'em aren't a match for one smartgirl. They can't run. All got flat feet. "

Anna nodded. She was faint and dizzy, and the car seemed to creep along. It was twenty minutes after eleven when she got out. The conductorleaned down after her, hanging to the handrail. 

"Good luck to you!" he said. "And you'd better get a better face on youthan that. It's enough to send you up, on suspicion!"

She hardly heard him. She began to run, and again she said over and overher little inarticulate prayer. She knew the Spencer house. Morethan once she had walked past it, on Sunday afternoons, for thesheer pleasure of seeing Graham's home. Well, all that was over now. Everything was over, unless--

The Spencer house was dark, save for a low light in the hall. A newterror seized her. Suppose Graham saw her. He might not believe herstory. He might think it a ruse to see his father. But, as it happened, Clayton had sent the butler to bed, and himself answered the bell fromthe library. 

He recognized her at once, and because he saw the distress on her facehe brought her in at once. In the brief moment that it required to turnon the lights he had jumped to a sickening conviction that Graham wasat the bottom of her visit, and her appearance in full light confirmedthis. 

"Come into the library, " he said. "We can talk in there. " He led theway and drew up a chair for her. But she did not sit down. She steadiedherself by its back, instead. 

"You think it's about Graham, " she began. "It isn't, not directly, thatis. And my coming is terrible, because it's my own father. They're goingto blow up the munition plant, Mr. Spencer!"

"When?"

"To-night, I think. I came as fast as I could. I was locked in. 

"Locked in?" He was studying her face. 

"Yes. Don't bother about that now. I'm not crazy or hysterical. I tellyou I heard them. I've been a prisoner or I'd have come sooner. To-daythey brought something--dynamite or a bomb--in a suit-case--and it'sgone to-night. He took it--my father. "

He was already at the telephone as she spoke. He called the mill first, and got the night superintendent. Then he called a number Anna supposedwas the police station, and at the same time he was ringing thegarage-signal steadily for his car. By the time he had explained thesituation to the police, his car was rolling under the porte-cocherebeside the house. He was starting out, forgetful of the girl, when shecaught him by the arm. 

"You mustn't go!" she cried. "You'll be killed, too. It will all go, all of it. You can't be spared, Mr. Spencer. You can build another mill, but--"

He shook her off, gently. 

"Of course I'm going, " he said. "We'll get it in time. Don't you worry. You sit down here and rest, and when it's all straightened out I'll comeback. I suppose you can't go home, after this?"

"No, " she said, dully. 

He ran out, hatless, and a moment later she heard the car rush out intothe night. 

Five minutes passed. Ten. Anna Klein stood, staring ahead of her. Whennothing happened she moved around and sat down in the chair. She wasfrightfully tired. She leaned her head back and tried to think ofsomething to calm her shaking nerves, --that this was Graham's home, thathe sometimes sat in that very chair. But she found that Graham meantnothing to her. Nothing mattered, except that her warning had been intime. 

So intent was she on the thing that she was listening for that smaller, near-by sounds escaped her. So she did not hear a door open up-stairsand the soft rustle of a woman's negligee as it swept from stair tostair. But as the foot-steps outside the door she stood up quickly andlooked back over her shoulder. 

Natalie stood framed in the doorway, staring at her. 

"Well?" she said. And on receiving no answer from the frightened girl, "What are you doing here?"

The ugly suspicion in her voice left Anna speechless for a moment. 

"Don't move, please, " said Natalie's cold voice. "Stay just where youare. " She reached behind the curtain at the doorway, and Anna heard thefar-away ringing of a bell, insistent and prolonged. The girl rousedherself with an effort. 

"I came to see Mr. Spencer. "

"That is a likely story! Who let you in?"

"Mr. Spencer. "

"Mr. Spencer is not in. "

"But he did. I'm telling you the truth. Indeed I am. I rang the bell, and he came to the door. I had something to tell him. "

"What could you possibly have to tell my husband at this hour. "

But Anna Klein did not answer. From far away there came a dull reportfollowed almost immediately by a second one. The windows rattled, andthe house seemed to rock rather gently on its foundation. Then silence. 

Anna Klein picked up her empty pocket-book from the table and looked atit. 

"I was too late, " she said dully, and the next moment she was lying atNatalie's feet. 

CHAPTER XLII

It was not until dawn that the full extent of the disaster was revealed. All night, by the flames from the sheds in the yard, which were of woodand still burning, rescue parties had worked frantically. Two of thelong buildings, nearest to the fuse department, had collapsed entirely. Above the piles of fallen masonry might be seen, here and there, theblack mass of some machine or lathe, and it was there the search partieswere laboring. Luckily the fuse department had not gone double turn, andthe night shift in the machine-shop was not a full one. 

The fuse department was a roaring furnace, and repeated calls hadbrought in most of the fire companies of the city. Running back andforth in the light of the flames were the firemen and such volunteerrescuers as had been allowed through the police cordon. Outside thatline of ropes and men were gathered a tragic crowd, begging, imploringto be allowed through to search for some beloved body. Now and thena fresh explosion made the mob recoil, only to press close again, importuning, tragic, hopeless. 

The casualty list ran high. All night long ambulances stood in a rowalong the street, backed up to the curb and waiting, and ever so often asilent group, in broken step, carried out some quiet covered thing thatwould never move again. 

With the dawn Graham found his father. He had thrown off his coat and inhis shirt-sleeves was, with other rescuers, digging in the ruins. Grahamhimself had been working. He was nauseated, weary, and unutterablywretched, for he had seen the night superintendent and had heard of hisfather's message. 

"Klein!" he said. "You don't mean Herman Klein?"

"That was what he said. I was to find him and hold him until he gothere. But I couldn't find him. He may have got out. There's no way oftelling now. "

Waves of fresh nausea swept over Graham. He sat down on a pile of bricksand wiped his forehead, clammy with sweat. 

"I hope to God he was burned alive, " muttered the other man, surveyingthe scene. His eyes were reddened with smoke from the fire, his clothingtorn. 

"I was knocked down myself, " he said. "I was out in the yard looking forKlein, and I guess I lay there quite a while. If I hadn't gone out?" Heshrugged his shoulders. 

"How many women were on the night shift?"

"Not a lot. Twenty, perhaps. If I had my way I'd take every German inthe country and boil 'em in oil. I didn't want Klein back, but he was agood workman. Well, he's done a good job now. "

It was after that that Graham saw his father, a strange, wild-eyedClayton who drove his pick with a sort of mad strength, and at the sametime gave orders in an unfamiliar voice. Graham, himself a disorderedfigure, watched him for a moment. He was divided between fear andresolution. Some place in that debacle there lay his own responsibility. He was still bewildered, but the fact that Anna's father had done thething was ominous. 

The urge to confession was stronger than his fears. Somehow, during thenight, he had become a man. But now he only felt, that somehow, duringthe night, he had become a murderer. 

Clayton looked up, and he moved toward him. 

"Yes?"

"I've had some coffee made at a house down the street. Won't you comeand have it?"

Clayton straightened. He was very tired, and the yard was full ofvolunteers now, each provided at the gate with a pick or shovel. A lookat the boy's face decided him. 

"I'll come, " he said, and turned his pick over to a man beside him. Hejoined Graham, and for a moment he looked into the boy's eyes. Then heput a hand on his shoulder, and together they walked out, past the lineof ambulances, into a street where the scattered houses showed not asingle unshattered window, and the pavements were littered with glass. 

His father's touch comforted the boy, but it made even harder the thinghe had to do. For he could not go through life with this thing on hissoul. There had been a moment, after he learned of Herman's implication, when he felt the best thing would be to kill himself, but he had putthat aside. It was too easy. If Herman Klein had done this thing becauseof Anna and himself, then he was a murderer. If he had done it becausehe was a German, then he--Graham--had no right to die. He would live tomake as many Germans as possible pay for this night's work. 

"I've got something to tell you, father, " he said, as they paused beforethe house where the coffee was ready. Clayton nodded, and together theywent inside. Even this house was partially destroyed. A piece of masonryhad gone through the kitchen, and standing on fallen bricks and plaster, a cheerful old woman was cooking over a stove which had somehow escapeddestruction. 

"It's bad, " she said to Graham, as she poured the coffee into cups, "butit might have been worse, Mr. Spencer. We're all alive. And I guess I'llunderstand what my boy's writing home about now. They've sure broughtthe war here this night. "

Graham carried the coffee into the little parlor, where Clayton satdropped on a low chair, his hands between his knees. He was a strange, disheveled figure, gray of face and weary, and the hand he held out forthe cup was blistered and blackened. Graham did not touch his coffee. Heput it on the mantel, and stood waiting while Clayton finished his. 

"Shall I tell you now, sir?"

Clayton drew a long breath. 

"It was Herman Klein who did it?"

"Probably. I had a warning last night, but it was too late. I shouldhave known, of course, but somehow I didn't. He'd been with us a longtime. I'd have sworn he was loyal. "

For the first time in his life Graham saw his father weaken, thepitiful, ashamed weakness of a strong man. His voice broke, his facetwitched. The boy drew himself up; they couldn't both go to pieces. Hecould not know that Clayton had worked all that night in that hell withthe conviction that in some way his own son was responsible; that heknew already what Graham was about to tell him. 

"If Herman Klein did it, father, it was because he was the tool of agang. And the reason he was a tool was because he thought I was--livingwith Anna. I wasn't. I don't know why I wasn't. There was every chance. I suppose I meant to some time. Anyhow, he thought I was. "

If he had expected any outbreak from Clayton, he met none. Clayton satlooking ahead, and listening. Inside of the broken windows the curtainswere stirring in the fresh breeze of early morning, and in the kitchenthe old woman was piling the fallen bricks noisily. 

"I had been flirting with her a little--it wasn't much more than that, and I gave her a watch at Christmas. He found it out, and he beat her. Awfully. She ran away and sent for me, and I met her. She had to hidefor days. Her face was all bruised. Then she got sick from it. She wassick for weeks. "

"Did he know where she was?"

"I think not, or he'd have gone to get her. But Rudolph Klein knewsomething. I took her out to dinner, to a roadhouse, a few days ago, and she said she saw him there. I didn't. All that time, weeks, I'dnever--I'd never gone to her room. That night I did. I don't know why. I--"

"Go on. "

"Well, I went, but I didn't stay. I couldn't. I guess she thought I wascrazy. I went away, that's all. And the next day I felt that she mightbe feeling as though I'd turned her down or something. And I feltresponsible. Maybe you won't understand. I don't quite myself. Anyhow, Iwent back, to let her know I wasn't quite a brute, even if---But she wasgone. I'm not trying to excuse myself. It's a rotten story, for I wasengaged to Marion then. "

Suddenly he sat down beside Clayton and buried his face in his hands. For some reason or other Clayton found himself back in the hospital, that night when Joey lay still and quiet, and Graham was sobbing like achild, prostrate on the white covering of the bed. With the incrediblerapidity of thought in a mental crisis, he saw the last months, theboy's desire to go to France thwarted, his attempt to interest himselfin the business, the tool Marion Hayden had made of him, Anna's doglikedevotion, all leading inevitably to catastrophe. And through it allhe saw Natalie, holding Graham back from war, providing him with extramoney, excusing him, using his confidences for her own ends, insidiouslysapping the boy's confidence in his father and himself. 

"We'll have to stand up to this together, Graham. "

The boy looked up. 

"Then--you're not going to throw me over altogether--"

"No. "

"But--all this--!"

"If Herman Klein had not done it, there were others who would, probably. It looks as though you had provided them with a tool, but I suppose wewere vulnerable in a dozen ways. "

He rose, and they stood, eyes level, father and son, in the earlymorning sunlight. And suddenly Graham's arms were around his shoulders, and something tight around Clayton's heart relaxed. Once again, and nowfor good, he had found his boy, the little boy who had not so long agostood on a chair for this very embrace. Only now the boy was a man. 

"I'm going to France, father, " he said. "I'm going to pay them back forthis. And out of every two shots I fire one will be for you. "

Perhaps he had found his boy only to lose him, but that would have to beas God willed. 

At ten o'clock he went up to the house, to change his wet and draggledclothing. The ruins were being guarded by soldiers, and the work ofrescue was still going on, more slowly now, since there was little or nohope of finding any still living thing in that flame-swept wreckage. Hefound Natalie in bed, with Madeleine in attendance, and he learned thather physician had just gone. 

He felt that he could not talk to her just then. She had a morbidinterest in horrors, and with the sights of that night fresh in his mindhe could not discuss them. He stopped, however, in her doorway. 

"I'm glad you are resting, " he said, "Better stay in bed to-day. It'sbeen a shock. "

"Resting! I've been frightfully ill. "

"I'm sorry, my dear. I'll come in again on my way out. "

"Clay!"

He turned in the doorway. 

"Is it all gone? Everything?"

"Practically. Yes. "

"But you were insured?"

"I'll tell you about that later. I haven't given it much thought yet. Idon't know just how we stand. "

"I shall never let Graham go back to it again. I warn you. I've beenlying here for hours, thinking that it might have happened as easily asnot while he was there. "

He hardly listened. He had just remembered Anna. 

"I left a girl here last night, Natalie, " he said. "Do you happen toknow what became of her?"

Natalie stirred on her pillows. 

"I should think I do. She fainted, or pretended to faint. The servantslooked after her. "

"Has she gone?"

"I hope so. It is almost noon. Oh, by the way, " she called, as he movedoff, "there is a message for you. A woman named Gould, from the CentralHospital. She wants to see you at once. They have kept the telephoneringing all the morning. "

Clare Gould! That was odd. He had seen her taken out, a bruised andmoaning creature, her masses of fair hair over her shoulders, her eyesshut. The surgeons had said she was not badly hurt. She might be worsethan they thought. The mention of her name brought Audrey before him. Hehoped, wherever she was, she would know that he was all right. 

As soon as he had changed he called the hospital. The message came backpromptly and clearly. 

"We have a woman named Gould here. She is not badly hurt, but she ishysterical. She wants to see you, but if you can't come at once I am togive you a message. Wait a moment. She has written it, but it's hardlylegible. "

Clayton waited. 

"It's about somebody you know, who had gone on night turn recently atyour plant. I can't read the name. It looks like Ballantine. "

"It isn't Valentine, is it?"

"Perhaps it is. It's just a scrawl. But the first name is clearenough--Audrey. "

Afterward he did not remember hanging up the receiver, or getting out ofthe house. He seemed to come to himself somewhat at the hospital, andat the door to Clare's ward his brain suddenly cleared. He did not needClare's story. It seemed that he knew it all, had known it long agesbefore. Her very words sounded like infinite repetitions of something hehad heard, over and over. 

"She was right beside me, and I was showing her about the lathe. They'dtold me I could teach her. She was picking it up fast, too. And sheliked it. She liked it--"

The fact that Audrey had liked it broke down his scanty reserve ofrestraint. Clayton found himself looking down at her from a greatdistance. She was very remote. Clare pulled herself together. 

"When the first explosion came it didn't touch us. But I guess she knewit meant more. She said something about the telephone and gettinghelp and there'd be more, and she started to run. I just stood there, watching her run, and waiting. And then the second one came, and--"

Suddenly Clare seemed to disappear altogether. He felt something catchhis arm, and the nurse's voice, very calm and quiet:

"Sit down. I'll get you something. "

Then he was swallowing a fluid that burned his throat, and Clare wascrying with the sheet drawn to her mouth, and somewhere Audrey--

He got up, and the nurse followed him out. 

"You might look for the person here, " she suggested. "We have hadseveral brought in. "

He was still dazed, but he followed her docilely. Audrey was not there. He seemed to have known that, too. That there would be a long search, and hours of agony, and at the end--the one thing he did not know waswhat was to be at the end. 

All that afternoon he searched, going from hospital to hospital. And ateach one, as he stopped, that curious feeling of inner knowledge toldhim she was not there. But the same instinct told him she was not dead. He would have known it if she was dead. There was no reasoning in it. Hecould not reason. But he knew, somehow. 

Then, late in the afternoon, he found her. He knew that he had foundher. It was as though, at the entrance of the hospital, some sixth sensehad told him this was right at last. He was quite steady, all at once. She was here, waiting for him to come. And now he had come, and it wouldbe all right. 

Yet, for a time, it seemed all wrong. She was not conscious, had notroused since she was brought it. There were white screens around herbed, and behind them she lay alone. They had braided her hair in twolong dark braids, and there was a bandage on one of her arms. She lookedvery young and very tired, but quite peaceful. 

His arrival had caused a small stir of excitement, his own prominence, the disaster with which the country was ringing. But for a few minutes, before the doctors arrived, he was alone with her behind the screen. Itwas like being alone with his dead. Bent over her, his face pressed toone of her quiet hands, he whispered to her all the little tendernesses, the aching want of her, that so long he had buried in his heart. Thingshe could not have told her, waking, he told her then. It seemed, too, that she must rouse to them, that she must feel him there beside her, calling her back. But she did not move. 

It was then, for the first time, that he wondered what he would do ifshe should die. 

The doctors, coming behind the screen, found him sitting erect andstill, staring ahead of him, with a strange expression on his face. Hehad just decided that he could not, under any circumstances, live if shedied. 

It was rather a good thing for Clayton's sanity that they gave him hope. He was completely unnerved, tired and desperate. Indeed, when they camein he had been picturing Audrey and himself, wandering hand in hand, very quietly and contentedly, in some strange world which was his ratherhazy idea of the Beyond. It seemed to him quite sane and extraordinarilyhappy. 

The effort of meeting the staff roused him, and, with hope came a returnto normality. There was much to be done, special nurses, a private room, and--rather reluctantly---friends and relatives to be notified. Only fora few minutes, out of all of life, had she been his. He must give her upnow. Life had become one long renunciation. 

He did not go home at all that night. He divided his time between theplant and the hospital, going back and forward. Each time he found thereport good. She was still strong; no internal injuries had manifestedthemselves, and the concussion would probably wear off before long. Hewanted to be there when she first opened her eyes. He was afraidshe might be frightened, and there would be a bad minute when sheremembered--if she did remember. 

At midnight, going into the room, he found Mrs. Haverford besideAudrey's bed, knitting placidly. She seemed to accept his being thereas perfectly natural, and she had no sick-room affectations. She did notwhisper, for one thing. 

"The nurse thinks she is coming round, Clayton, " she said. "I waited, because I thought she ought to see a familiar face when she does. "

Mrs. Haverford was eminently good for him. Her cheerfulmatter-of-factness her competent sanity, restored his belief in a worldthat had seemed only chaos and death. How much, he wondered later, hadMrs. Haverford suspected? He had not been in any condition to acta part. But whatever she suspected he knew was locked in her kindlybreast. 

Audrey moved slightly, and he went over to her. When he glanced up againMrs. Haverford had gone out. 

So it was that Audrey came back to him, and to him alone. She asked noquestions. She only lay quite still on her white pillows, and lookedat him. Even when he knelt beside her and drew her toward him, she saidnothing, but she lifted her uninjured hand and softly caressed his benthead. Clayton never knew whether Mrs. Haverford had come back and seenthat or not. He did not care, for that matter. It seemed to him justthen that all the world must know what was so vitally important, sotranscendently wonderful. 

Not until Audrey's eyes closed again, and he saw that she was sleeping, did he loosen his arms from around her. 

When at last he went out to the stiffly furnished hospital parlor, hefound Mrs. Haverford sitting there alone, still knitting. But he ratherthought she had been crying. There was an undeniably moist handkerchiefon her knee. 

"She roused a little while ago, " he said, trying to speak quietly, andas though Audrey's rousing were not the wonder that it was. "She seemedvery comfortable. And now she's sleeping. "

"The dear child!" said Mrs. Haverford. "If she had died, aftereverything--" Her plump face quivered. "Things have never been veryhappy for her, Clayton. "

"I'm afraid not. " He went to a window and stood looking out. Thecity was not quiet, but its mighty roar of the day was lowered to amonotonous, drowsy humming. From the east, reflected against low-hangingclouds, was the dull red of his own steel mills, looking like thereflection of a vast conflagration. 

"Not very happy, " he repeated. 

"Some times, " Mrs. Haverford was saying, "I wonder about things. Peoplego along missing the best things in life, and--I suppose there is areason for it, but some times I wonder if He ever meant us to go on, crucifying our own souls. "

So she did know!

"What would you have us do?"

"I don't know. I suppose there isn't any answer. "

Afterward, Clayton found that that bit of conversation with Mrs. Haverford took on the unreality of the rest of that twenty-four hours. But one part of it stood out real and hopelessly true. There wasn't anyanswer!

CHAPTER XLIII

Anna Klein had gone home, at three o'clock that terrible morning, atrembling, white-faced girl. She had done her best, and she had failed. Unlike Graham, she had no feeling of personal responsibility, but shefelt she could never again face her father, with the thing that she knewbetween them. There were other reasons, too. Herman would be arrested, and she would be called to testify. She had known. She had warned Mr. Spencer. The gang, Rudolph's gang, would get her for that. 

She knew where they were now. They would be at Gus's, in the back room, drinking to the success of their scheme, and Gus, who was a German too, would be with them, offering a round of drinks on the house now and thenas his share of the night's rejoicing. Gus, who was already arranging tohelp draft-dodgers by sending them over the Mexican border. 

She would have to go back, to get in and out again if she could, beforeHerman came back. She had no clothes, except what she stood up in, andthose in her haste that night were, only her print house-dress with along coat. She would have to find a new position, and she would haveto have her clothing to get about in. She dragged along, singularlyunmolested. Once or twice a man eyed her, but her white face and vacanteyes were unattractive, almost sodden. 

She was barely able to climb the hill, and as she neared the house hertrepidation increased. What if Herman had come back? If he suspected herhe would kill her. He must have been half mad to have done the thing, anyhow. He would surely be half mad now. And because she was young andstrong, and life was still a mystery to be solved, she did not want todie. Strangely enough, face to face with danger there was still, in theback of her head, an exultant thrill in her very determination to live. She would start over again, and she would work hard and make good. 

"You bet I'll make good, " she resolved. "Just give me a chance and I'llwork my fool head off. "

Which was by way of being a prayer. 

It was the darkest hour before the dawn when she reached the cottage. Itwas black and very still, and outside the gate she stooped and slippedoff her shoes. The window into the shed by which she had escaped wasstill open, and she crouched outside, listening. When the stillnessremained unbroken she climbed in, tense for a movement or a blow. 

Once inside, however, she drew a long breath. The doors were stilllocked, and the keys gone. So Herman had not returned. But as she stoodthere, hurried stealthy footsteps came along the street and turned in atthe gate. In a panic she flew up the stairs and into her room, where thedoor still hung crazily on its hinges. She stood there, listening, herheart pounding in her ears, and below she distinctly heard a key in thekitchen door. She did the only thing she could think of. She lifted thedoor into place, and stood against it, bracing it with her body. 

Whoever it was was in the kitchen now, moving however more swiftly thanHerman. She heard matches striking. Then:

"Hsst!"

She knew that it was Rudolph, and she braced herself mentally. Rudolphwas keener than Herman. If he found her door in that condition, and sheherself dressed! Working silently and still holding the door in place, she flung off her coat. She even unpinned her hair and unfastened herdress. 

When his signal remained unanswered a second time he called her by name, and she heard him coming up. 

"Anna!" he repeated. 

"Yes?"

He was startled to hear her voice so close to the door. In the dark sheheard him fumbling for the knob. He happened on the padlock instead, andhe laughed a little. By that she knew that he was not quite sober. 

"Locked you in, has he?"

"What do you want?"

"Has Herman come home yet?"

"He doesn't get home until seven. "

"Hasn't he been back at all, to-night?"

She hesitated. 

"How do I know? I've been asleep!"

"Some sleep!" he said, and suddenly lurched against the door. Inspite of her it yielded, and although she braced herself with allher strength, his weight against it caused it to give way. It was asuspicious, crafty Rudolph who picked himself up and made a clutch ather in the dark. 

"You little liar, " he said thickly. And struck a match. She cowered awayfrom him. 

"I was going to run away, Rudolph, " she cried. "He hasn't any businesslocking me in, I won't stand for it. "

"You've been out. "

"No!"

"Out--after him!"

"Honest to God, Rudolph, no. I hate him. I don't ever want to see himagain. "

He put a hand out into the darkness, and finding her, tried to draw herto him. She struggled, and he released her. All at once she knew that hewas weak with fright. The bravado had died out of him. The face she hadtouched was covered with a clammy sweat. 

"I wish to God Herman would come. "

"What d' you want with him?"

"Have you got any whisky?"

"You've had enough of that stuff. "

Some one was walking along the street outside. She felt that he waslistening, crouched ready to run; but the steps went on. 

"Look here, Anna, " he said, when he had pulled himself together again. "I'm going to get out of this. I'm going away. "

"All right. You can go for all of me. "

"D'you mean to say you've been asleep all night? You didn't hearanything?"

"Hear what?"

He laughed. 

"You'll know soon enough. " Then he told her, hurriedly, that he wasgoing away. He'd come back to get her to promise to follow him. Hewasn't going to stay here and--

"And what?"

"And be drafted, " he finished, rather lamely. 

"Gus has a friend in a town on the Mexican border, " he said. "He's gotmaps of the country to Mexico City, and the Germans there fix you up allright. I'll get rich down there and some day I'll send for you? What'sthat?"

He darted to the window, faintly outlined by a distant street-lamp. Three men were standing quietly outside the gate, and a fourth wasalready in the garden, silently moving toward the house. She feltRudolph brush by her, and the trembling hand he laid on her arm. 

"Now lie!" he whispered fiercely. "You haven't seen me. I haven't beenhere to-night. "

Then he was gone. She ran to the window. The other three men were comingin, moving watchfully and slowly, and Rudolph was at Katie's window, cursing. If she was a prisoner, so was Rudolph. He realized thatinstantly, and she heard him breaking out the sash with a chair. At thesound the three figures broke into a run, and she heard the sash giveway. Almost instantly there was firing. The first shot was close, andshe knew it was Rudolph firing from the window. Some wild design ofbraining him from behind with a chair flashed into her desperate mind, but when she had felt her way into Katie's room he had gone. The gardenbelow was quiet, but there was yelling and the crackling of underbrushfrom the hill-side. Then a scattering of shots again, and silence. Theyard was empty. 

The hill paid but moderate attention to shots. They were usually merelypyrotechnic, and indicated rejoicing rather than death. But here andthere she heard a window raised, and then lowered again. The hill hadgone back to bed. Anna went into her room and dressed. For the firsttime it had occurred to her that she might be held by the police, andthe thought was unbearable. It was when she was making her escape thatshe found a prostrate figure in the yard, and knew that one of Rudolph'sshots had gone home. She could not go away and leave that, not unless--Aterrible hatred of Herman and Rudolph and all their kind suddenlyswept over her. She would not run away. She would stay and tell all theterrible truth. It was her big moment, and she rose to it. She would seeit through. What was her own safety to letting this band of murderersescape? And all that in the few seconds it took to reach the fallenfigure. It was only when she was very close that she saw it was moving. 

"Tell Dunbar he went to the left, " a voice was saying. "The left!They'll lose him yet. "

"Joey!"

"Hello, " said Joey's voice. He considered that he was speaking veryloud, but it was hardly more than a whisper. "That wasn't your father, was it? The old boy couldn't jump and run like that. "

"Are you hurt?"

He coughed a little, a gurgling cough that rather startled himself. Buthe was determined to be a man. 

"No. I just lay down here for a nap. Who was it that jumped?"

"My cousin Rudolph. Do you think I can help you into the house?"

"I'll walk there myself in a minute. Unless your cousin Rudolph--" Hishead dropped back on her arm. "I feel sort of all in. " His voice trailedoff. 

"Joey!"

"Lemme alone, " he muttered. "I'm the first casualty in the Americanarmy! I--" He made a desperate effort to speak in a man's voice, but thehigher boyish notes of sixteen conquered. "They certainly gave us hellto-night. But we're going to build again; me and--Clayton Spen--"

All at once he was very still. Anna spoke to him and, that failing, gavehim a frantic little shake. But Joey had gone to another partnershipbeyond the stars. 

CHAPTER XLIV

The immediate outstanding result of the holocaust at the munitions workswas the end of Natalie's dominion aver Graham. She never quite forgavehim the violence with which he threw off her shackles. 

"If I'd been half a man I'd have been over there long ago, " he said, standing before her, tall and young and flushed. "I'd have learned myjob by now, and I'd be worth something, now I'm needed. "

"And broken my heart. "

"Hearts don't break that way, mother. "

"Well, you say you are going now. I should think you'd be satisfied. There's plenty of time for you to get the glory you want. "

"Glory! I don't want any glory. And as for plenty of time--that'sexactly what there isn't. "

During the next few days she preserved an obstinate silence onthe subject. She knew he had been admitted to one of the officers'training-camps, and that he was making rather helpless and puzzledpurchases. Going into his room she would find a dressing-case of khakileather, perhaps, or flannel shirts of the same indeterminate hue. Shewould shed futile tears over them, and order them put out of sight. Butshe never offered to assist him. 

Graham was older, in many ways. He no longer ran up and down the stairswhistling, and he sought every opportunity to be with his father. Theyspent long hours together in the library, when, after a crowded day, filled with the thousand, problems of reconstructions, Clayton smokeda great deal, talked a little, rather shame-facedly after the manner ofmen, of personal responsibility in the war, and quietly watched the manwho was Graham. 

Out of those quiet hours, with Natalie at the theater or readingup-stairs in bed, Clayton got the greatest comfort of his life. He wouldneither look back nor peer anxiously ahead. 

The past, with its tragedy, was gone. The future might hold even worsethings. But just now he would live each day as it came, working to theutmost, and giving his evenings to his boy. The nights were the worst. He was not sleeping well, and in those long hours of quiet he tried torebuild his life along stronger, sterner lines. Love could have no placein it, but there was work left. He was strong and he was still young. The country should have every ounce of energy in him. He would re-buildthe plant, on bigger lines than before, and when that was done, he wouldbuild again. The best he could do was not enough. 

He scarcely noticed Natalie's withdrawal from Graham and himself. Whenshe was around he was his old punctilious self, gravely kind, more thanever considerate. Beside his failure to her, her own failure to himfaded into insignificance. She was as she was, and through no fault ofhers. But he was what he had made himself. 

Once or twice he had felt an overwhelming remorse toward her, and on onesuch occasion he had made a useless effort to break down the barrier ofher long silence. 

"Don't go up-stairs, Natalie, " he had begged. "I am not very amusing, I know, but--I'll try my best. I'll promise not to touch on anythingdisagreeable. " He had been standing in the hail, looking up at her onthe stair-case, and he smiled. There was pleading behind the smile, an inarticulate feeling that between them there might at least befriendship. 

"You are never disagreeable, " she had said, looking down with hostileeyes. "You are quite perfect. "

"Then won't you wait?"

"Perfection bores me to tears, " she said, and went on up the stairs. 

On the morning of Graham's departure, however, he found her prepared togo to the railway-station. She was red-eyed and pale, and he was verysorry for her. 

"Do you think it is wise?" he asked. 

"I shall see him off, of course. I may never see him again. "

And his own tautened nerves almost gave way. 

"Don't say that!" he cried. "Don't even think that. And for God's sake, Natalie, send him off with a smile. That's the least we can do. "

"I can't take it as casually as you do. "

He gave up then in despair. He saw that Graham watched her uneasilyduring the early breakfast, and he surmised that the boy's own gripon his self-control was weakened by the tears that dropped into hercoffee-cup. He reflected bitterly that all over the country strongwomen, good women, were sending their boys away to war, giving them withprayer and exaltation. What was wrong with Natalie? What was wrong withhis whole life?

When Graham was up-stairs, he turned to her. 

"Why do you persist in going, Natalie?"

"I intend to go. That's enough. "

"Don't you think you've made him unhappy enough?"

"He has made me unhappy enough. "

"You. It is always yourself, Natalie. Why don't you ever think of him?"He went to the door. "Countermand the order for the limousine, " he saidto the butler, "and order the small car for Mr. Graham and myself. "

"How dare you do that?"

"I am not going to let you ruin the biggest day in his life. "

She saw that he meant it. She was incredulous, reckless, angry, andthwarted for the first time in her self-indulgent life. 

"I hate you, " she said slowly. "I hate you!"

She turned and went slowly up the stairs. Graham, knocking at her doora few minutes later, heard the sound of hysterical sobbing, within, butreceived no reply. 

"Good-by, mother, " he called. "Good-by. Don't worry. I'll be all right. "

When he saw she did not mean to open the door or to reply, he wentrather heavily down the stairs. 

"I wish she wouldn't, " he said. "It makes me darned unhappy. "

But Clayton surmised a relief behind his regret, and in the train theboy's eyes were happier than they had been for months. 

"I don't know how I'll come out, dad, " he said. "But if I don't getthrough it won't be because I didn't try. "

And he did try. The enormous interest of the thing gripped him fromthe start; There was romance in it, too. He wore his first uniform, too small for him as it was, with immense pride. He rolled out in themorning at reveille, with the feeling that he had just gone to bed, atehugely at breakfast, learned to make his own cot-bed, and lined up on avast dusty parade ground for endless evolutions in a boiling sun. 

It was rather amusing to find himself being ordered about, in astentorian voice, by Jackson. And when, in off moments, that capableex-chauffeur condescended to a few moments of talk and relaxation, theboy was highly gratified. 

"Do you think I've got anything in me?" he would inquire anxiously. 

And Jackson always said heartily, "Sure you have. "

There were times when Graham doubted himself, however. There was onedreadful hour when Graham, in the late afternoon, and under the eyesof his commanding officer and a group of ladies, conducting the highlyformal and complicated ceremony of changing the guard, tied a lot ofgrinning men up in a knot which required the captain of the company andtwo sergeants to untangle. 

"I'm no earthly good, " he confided to Jackson that night, sitting on thesteps of his barracks. "I know it like a-b-c, and then I get up and tryit and all at once I'm just a plain damned fool. "

"Don't give up like that, son, " Jackson said. "I've seen 'em march aplatoon right into the C. O. 's porch before now. And once I just saved ababy-buggy and a pair of twins. "

Clayton wrote him daily, and now and then there came a letter fromNatalie, cheerful on the surface, but its cheerfulness obviously forced. And once, to his great surprise, Marion Hayden wrote him. 

"I just want you to know, " she said, "that I am still interested in you, even if it isn't going to be anything else. And that I am ridiculouslyproud of you. Isn't it queer to look back on last Winter and think whata lot of careless idiots we were? I suppose war doesn't really changeus, but it does make us wonder what we've got in us. I am surprised tofind that I am a great deal better than I ever thought I was!"

There was comfort in the letter, but no thrill. He was far away from allthat now, like one on the first stage of a long journey, with his eyesahead. 

Then one day he saw a familiar but yet strange figure striding alongthe country road. Graham was map-sketching that day, and the strange butfamiliar figure was almost on him when he looked up. It was extremelymilitary, and looked like a general at least. Also it was very red inthe face, and was clutching doggedly in its teeth an old briar pipe. But what had appeared from the front to be an ultra military figure oncloser inspection turned out to be a procession. Pulling back hard on arope behind was the company goat, Elinor. 

The ultra-military figure paused by Graham's sketching-stool, and said, "Young man, do you know where this creature belongs? I found her tryingto commit suicide on the rifle range--why, Graham!"

It was Doctor Haverford. He grew a trifle less military then, andborrowed some pipe tobacco. He looked oddly younger, Graham thought, andrather self-conscious of his uniform. 

"Every inch a soldier, Graham, " he chuckled. "Still have to use a hookand eye at the bottom of the coat--blouse, " he corrected himself. "ButI'm getting my waist-line again. How's the--whoa!" he called, as Elinorwrapped the rope around his carefully putted legs. "Infernal animal!" hegrumbled. "I just paid a quarter to have these puttees shined. How's thefamily?"

"Mother has gone to Linndale. The house is finished. Have you been herelong, sir?"

"Two weeks. Hang it all, Graham, I wish I'd let this creature commitsuicide. She's--do you know Delight is here?"

"Here? Why, no. "

"At the hostess house, " said the chaplain, proudly. "Doing her bit, too. Mrs. Haverford wanted to come too, and sew buttons on, or something. But I told her two out of three was a fair percentage. I hear thatWashington has sent for your father. 

"I hadn't heard. "

"He's a big man, Graham. We're going to hear from him. Only--I thoughthe looked tired when I saw him last. Somebody ought to look after him abit. " He was patiently untangling himself from Elinor's rope. "Youknow there are two kinds of people in the world: those who look afterthemselves and those who look after others. That's your father--thelast. "

Graham's face clouded. How true that was! He knew now, as he had notknown before. He was thinking clearly those days. Hard work and nothingto drink had clarified his mind, and he saw things at home as theyreally were. Clayton's infinite patience, his strength and hisgentleness. But he only said:

"He has had a hard year. " He raised his eyes and looked at the chaplain. "I didn't help him any, you know, sir. "

"Well, well, that's all over now. We've just one thing to think of, and that's to beat those German devils back to Berlin. And then burnBerlin, " he added, militantly. 

The last Graham saw of him, he was dragging Elinor down the road, and afaint throaty humming came back, which sounded suspiciously like "Wheredo we go from here, boys? Where do we go from here?"

Candidate Spencer took great pains with his toilet that afternoon. Hepolished his shoes, and shaved, and he spent a half hour on some tensadly neglected finger-nails. At retreat he stood at attention in thelong line, and watched the flag moving slowly and majestically tothe stirring bugle notes. Something swelled almost to bursting in histhroat. That was his flag. He was going to fight for it. And after thatwas done he was going to find some girl, some nice girl--the sort, forinstance, that would leave her home to work in a hostess house. Andhaving found her, he would marry her, and love and cherish her all hislife. Unless, of course, she wouldn't have him. He was inclined to thinkshe wouldn't. 

He ate very little supper that night, little being a comparative term, of course. And then he went to discover Delight. It appeared, however, that she had been already discovered. She was entirely surrounded byuniforms, and Graham furiously counted a colonel, two majors, and acaptain. 

"Pulling rank, of course!" he muttered, and retired to a corner, wherehe had at least the mild gratification of seeing that even the colonelcould not keep Delight from her work. 

"Silly asses!" said Graham, again, and then she saw him. There was noquestion about her being pleased. She was quite flushed with it, but alittle uncomfortable, too, at Graham's attitude. He was oddly humble, and yet he had a look of determination that was almost grim. She filledin a rather disquieting silence by trying to let him know, withoutrevealing that she had ever been anything else, how proud she wasof him. Then she realized that he was not listening, and that he waslooking at her with an almost painful intensity. 

"When can you get away, Delight?" he asked abruptly. 

"From here?" She cast an appraising glance over the room. "Right away, Ithink. Why?"

"Because I want to talk to you, and I can't talk to you here. "

She brought a bright colored sweater and he helped her into it, stillwith his mouth set and his eyes a trifle sunken. All about there werelaughing groups of men in uniform. Outside, the parade glowed faintlyin the dusk, and from the low barrack windows there came the glow oflights, the movement of young figures, voices, the thin metallic notesof a mandolin. 

"How strange it all is, " Delight said. "Here we are, you and father andmyself--and even Jackson. I saw him to-day. All here, living differentlives, doing different things, even thinking different thoughts. It's asthough we had all moved into a different world. "

He walked on beside her, absorbed in his own thoughts, which were yetonly of her. 

"I didn't know you were here, " he brought out finally. 

"That's because you've been burying yourself. I knew you were here. "

"Why didn't you send me some word?"

She stiffened somewhat in the darkness. 

"I didn't think you would be greatly interested, Graham. "

And again, struggling with his new humility, he was silent. It was notuntil they had crossed the parade ground and were beyond the noises ofthe barracks that he spoke again. 

"Do you mind if I talk to you, Delight? I mean, about myself? I--sinceyou're here, we're likely to see each other now and then, if you arewilling. And I'd like to start straight. "

"Do you really want to tell me?"

"No. But I've got to. That's all. "

He told her. He made no case for himself. Indeed, some of it Delightunderstood far better than he did himself. He said nothing againstMarion; on the contrary, he blamed himself rather severely. Andbehind his honest, halting sentences, Delight read his own lack ofunderstanding. She felt infinitely older than this tall, honest-eyedboy in his stained uniform--older and more sophisticated. But if she hadunderstood the Marion Hayden situation, she was totally at a loss as toAnna. 

"But I don't understand!" she cried. "How could you make love to her ifyou didn't love her?"

"I don't know. Fellows do those things. It's just mischief--some sort ofa devil in them, I suppose. "

When he reached the beating and Anna's flight, however, she understood alittle better. 

"Of course you had to stand by her, " she agreed. 

"You haven't heard it all, " he said quietly. "When I'm through, if youget up and leave me, I'll understand, Delight, and I won't blame you. "

He told her the rest of the story in a voice strained with anxiety. It was as though he had come to a tribunal for judgment. He spared hernothing, the dinner at the road-house with Rudolph at the window, hisvisit to Anna's room, and her subsequent disappearance. 

"She told the Department of Justice people that Rudolph found her thatnight, and, took her home. She was a prisoner then, poor little kid. But she overheard her father and Rudolph plotting to blow up the mill. That's where I came in, Delight. He was crazy at me. He was a German, ofcourse, and he might have done it anyhow. But Rudolph told him a lotof lies about me, and--he did it. When I think about it all, and aboutJoey, I'm crazy. "

She slipped her hand over his. 

"Of course they would have done it anyhow, " she said softly. 

"You aren't going to get up and go away?"

"Why should I?" she asked. "I only feel--oh, Graham, how wretched youmust have been. "

Something in her voice made him sit up straighter. He knew now that ithad always been Delight, always. Only she had been too good for him. She had set a standard he had not hoped to reach. But now things weredifferent. He hadn't amounted to much in other things, but he was asoldier now. He meant to be a mighty good soldier. And when he got hiscommission--

"You won't mind, then, if I come in to see you now and then?"

"Mind? Why, Graham!"

"And you don't think I'm quite hopeless, do you?"

There were tears in her eyes, but she answered bravely:

"I believe in you every minute. But then I think I always have. "

"Like fun you have!" But although he laughed, it was a shaky laugh. Suddenly he stood up and shook himself. He felt young and strong andextremely happy. There had been a bad time, but it was behind him now. Ahead there lay high adventure, and here, beside him in the dusk, wasthe girl of his heart. She believed in him. Work to do and a woman whobelieved in a fellow--that was life. 

"Aren't you cold?" he asked, and drew the gaudy sweater tenderly aroundher shoulders. 

CHAPTER XLV

The fact that Audrey Valentine, conspicuous member of a conspicuoussocial group that she was, had been working in the machine-shop ofthe Spencer munitions works at the time of the explosion was in itselfsufficient to rouse the greatest interest. When a young reporter, gathering human-interest stories about the event from the pitifulwreckage in the hospitals, happened on Clare Gould, he got afeature-story for the Sunday edition that made Audrey's own world, reading it in bed or over its exquisite breakfast-tables, gasp withamazement. 

For, following up Clare's story, he found that Audrey had done muchmore than run toward the telephone. She had reached it, had found theoperator gone, and had succeeded, before the roof fell in on her, incalling the fire department and in sending in a general alarm to all thehospitals. 

The reporter found the night operator who had received the message. Hegot a photograph of her, too, and, from the society file, an old oneof Audrey, very delicate and audacious, and not greatly resemblingthe young woman who lay in her bed and read the article aloud, betweendismay and laughter, to old Terry Mackenzie. 

"Good heavens, Terry, " she said. "Listen! I had heard the explosion, but did not of course know what it was. And then I got a signal, andit was the Spencer plant. A sweet Southern voice said, very calmly, 'Operator, this is important. Listen carefully. There has been anexplosion at the Spencer plant and the ruins are on fire. There willprobably be more explosions in a minute. Send in a general fire-alarm, and then get all the ambulances and doctors--' Then there was anotherexplosion, and their lines went out of commission. I am glad she is notdead. She certainly had her nerve. "

"Fame at last, Audrey!" said old Terry, very gently. 

"It's shameless!" But she was a little pleased, nevertheless. Not at thepublicity. That was familiar enough. But that, when her big moment came, she had met it squarely. 

Terry was striding about the room. His visits were always rathercyclonic. He moved from chair to chair, leaving about each one anencircling ring of cigaret ashes, and carefully inspecting each new vaseof flowers. He stopped in front of a basket of exquisite small orchids. 

"Who sent this?" he demanded. 

"Rodney Page. Doesn't it look like him?"

He turned and stared at her. 

"What's come over Clayton Spencer? Is he blind?"

"Blind?"

"About Rodney. He's head over heels in love with Natalie Spencer, Godalone knows why. "

"I daresay it isn't serious. He is always in love with somebody. "

"There's a good bit of talk. I don't give a hang for either of them, butI'm fond of Clayton. So are you. Natalie's out in the country now, and Rodney is there every week-end. It's a scandal, that's all. As forNatalie herself, she ought to be interned as a dangerous pacifist. She'sa martyr, in her own eyes. Thank heaven there aren't many like her. "

Audrey leaned back against her pillows. 

"I wonder, Terry, " she said, "if you haven't shown me what to do next. Imight be able to reach some of the women like Natalie. There are some ofthem, and they've got to learn that if they don't stand behind the men, we're lost. "

"Fine!" he agreed. "Get 'em to knit less and write more letters, cheerful letters. Tell 'em to remember that by the time their man getsthe letter the baby's tooth will be through. There are a good manymen in the army-camps to-day vicariously cutting teeth. Get after 'em, Audrey! A worried man is a poor soldier. "

After he had gone, she had the nurse bring her paper and pencil, and shewrote, rather incoherently, it is true, her first appeal to the women ofthe country. It was effective, too. Audrey was an effective person. When Clayton came for his daily visit she had just finished it, and wasreading it over with considerable complacency. 

"I've become an author, Clay, " she said, "I think myself I'm terriblygood at it. May I read it to you?"

He listened gravely, but with a little flicker of amusement in hiseyes. How like her it was, to refuse to allow herself even time to getentirely well! But when she finished he was thoughtful. She had calledit "Slacker Women. " That was what Natalie was; he had never put it intowords before. Natalie was a slacker. 

He had never discussed Natalie's attitude toward the war with Audrey. Herather thought she was entirely ignorant of it. But her little article, glowing with patriotism, frank, simple, and convincing, might have beenwritten to Natalie herself. 

"It is very fine, " he said. "I rather think you have found yourself atlast. There aren't a lot of such women and I daresay they will be fewerall the time. But they exist, of course. "

She glowed under his approval. 

There was, in all their meetings, a sub-current of sadness, that theymust be so brief, that before long they must end altogether, that theycould not put into words the things that were in their eyes and theirhearts. After that first hour of her return to consciousness there hadbeen no expressed tenderness between them. The nurse sat in the room, eternally knitting, and Clayton sat near Audrey, or read to her, or, like Terry, wandered about the room. But now and then Audrey, enthroned, like a princess on her pillows, would find his eyes on her, and sucha hungry look in them that she would clench her hands. And aftersuch times she always said: "Now, tell me about the mill. " Or aboutWashington, where he was being summoned with increasing frequency. Orabout Graham. Anything to take that look out of his eyes. He told herall his plans; he even brought the blue-prints of the new plant andspread them out on the bed. He was dreaming a great dream those days, and Audrey knew it. He was building again, this time not for himself, but for the nation. 

After he had gone, looking boyish and reluctant, she would lie for alittle while watching the door. Perhaps he had forgotten something, andwould come back! One day he did, and was surprised to find her suddenlyin tears. 

"You came back!" she said half hysterically. "You came back. "

That was the only time in all those weeks that he kissed her. The nursehad gone out, and suddenly he caught her in his arms and held her tohim. He put her back very gently, and she saw that he was pale. 

"I think I'd better go now, and not come back, " he said. 

And for two long and endless days he did not come. Then on the thirdhe came, very stiff and formal, and with himself well in hand. Audrey, leaning back and watching him, felt what a boy he was after all, sodetermined to do the right thing, so obvious with his blue-prints, andso self-conscious. 

In June she left the hospital and went to the country. She had alreadymade a little market for her work, and she wanted to carry it on. Bythat time, too, she knew that the break must come between Clayton andherself if it came at all. 

"No letters, no anything, Clay, " she said, and he acquiesced quietly. But the night she left, the butler, coming downstairs to investigate asuspicious sound, found him restlessly pacing the library floor. 

In August he went abroad, and some time about the middle of the monthwhile he was in London, he received a cable from Graham. He had beencommissioned a first lieutenant in the infantry. Clayton had been seeingwar at first hand then, and for a few moments he was fairly terrified. On that first of August the Germans had used liquid fire for the firsttime, thus adding a new horror. Men in the trenches swept by it had beenpractically annihilated. Attacks against it were practically suicide. Already the year had seen the last of Kitchener's army practicallydestroyed, and the British combing the country for new divisions. 

In the deadly give and take of that summer, where gains and losses weremeasured by yards, the advantage was steadily on the German side, andit would be a year before the small force of American regulars could beaugmented to any degree by the great new army. It was the darkest hour. 

Following on the heels of Graham's cable came a hysterical one fromNatalie. 

"Graham probably ordered abroad. Implore you use influence withWashington. "

He resorted to his old remedy when he was in trouble. He walked thestreets. He tried to allow for Natalie's lack of exaltation by thenature of her life. If she could have seen what he had seen, surely shewould have felt, as he did, that no sacrifice could be too great to endthis cancer of the world. But deep in his heart he knew that Nataliewas--Natalie. Nothing would change her. 

As it happened, he passed Graham on the Atlantic. There was a letter forhim at the office, a boyish, exultant letter:

"Dad dear, I'm married!" it began. "Married and off for France. It isDelight, of course. It always was Delight, altho I know that soundsqueer. And now I'm off to kill a Hun or two. More than that, I hope. Iwant two Germans for every poor devil they got at the works. That's theminimum. The maximum--!

"You'll look after Delight, I know. She has been perfectly bully, butit's hard on her. We were married two days ago, and already I feel asthough I've always been married. She's going on with the canteen work, and I shall try not to be jealous. She's popular! And if you'd seenthe General when we were married you'd have thought he was losing adaughter. 

"I wired Mother, but she was too cut up about my leaving to come. I wishshe had, for it was a strange sort of wedding. The division was aboutto move, and at the last minute five girls turned up to be married tofellows who were leaving. They came from all over, and believe me therewas some excitement. All day the General and Chaplain Haverford werefussing about licenses, and those girls sat around and waited, andlooked droopy but sort of happy--you know what I mean. 

"It was nine o'clock in the evening before everything was ready. Delighthad trimmed up the little church which is in the camp and had a flagover the altar. Then we had a multiple wedding. Honestly! The organplayed a squeaky wedding march, and we went in, six couples. The churchwas full of soldiers, and--I don't mind saying I was ready to shedtears. 

"We lined up, and Doctor Haverford married us. Delight says she is surewe are only one-sixth married. Quiet! You never heard such quiet--exceptfor the General blowing his nose. I think myself he was weeping, andthere was a rumor about the camp to that effect. You know--the flag overthe altar, and all that. I tell you it made a fellow think. 

"Well, I'm going over now. Quick work, isn't it? And to think that a fewmonths ago I was hanging around the club and generally making a messof life. That's all over now, thank God. I'm going to make good. Try tobuck mother up. It's pretty hard for her. It's hard for all women, justwaiting. And while I know I'm coming back, safe and sound, I'd liketo feel that you are going to keep an eye on Delight. She's the mostimportant thing in the world to me now. "

Then scrawled in a corner he had added, "You've been mighty fine with me always, dad. I was a good bit of a puplast winter. If I make anything of myself at all, it will be because Iwant to be like you. "

Clayton sat for a long time with the letter in his hand. The happinessand hope that fairly radiated from it cheered and warmed him. He wasnearly happy. And it came to him then that, while every man had theright to happiness, only those achieved it who craved it for others, andhaving craved it for them, at last saw the realization of their longing. 

CHAPTER XLVI

Natalie had had a dull Spring. With Graham's departure for camp shemoved to the country house, carrying with her vast amounts of luggage, the innumerable thing, large and small, which were necessary for hercomfort. The installing of herself in her new and luxurious rooms gaveher occupation for several days. She liked her new environment. Sheliked herself in it. The rose-colored taffetas of her bedroom broughtout the delicacy of her skin. The hangings of her bed, small and draped, reflected a faint color into her face, and the morning inspection witha hand-mirror, which always followed her coffee, showed her at her bestinstead of her worst. 

Of her dressing-room she was not so sure. It's ivory-paneled walls, behind whose sliding panels were hung her gowns, her silk and satinchiffon negligees, her wraps and summer furs--all the vast paraphernaliawith which she armed herself, as a knight with armor--the walls seemedcold. She hated old-blue, but old-blue Rodney had insisted upon. 

He had held a bit of the taffeta to her cheek. 

"It is delicious, Natalie, " he said. "It makes your eyes as blue as thesea. "

"Always a decorator!" she had replied, smiling. 

And, standing in her blue room, the first day of her arrival, andfrowning at her reflection, she remembered his reply. 

"Because I have no right, with you, to be anything else. " He had stoppedfor a moment, and had absently folded and refolded the bit of blue silk. Suddenly he said, "What do you think I am going to do, now that our worktogether is done? Have you ever thought about that, Natalie?"

"You are coming often to enjoy your handiwork?"

He had made an impulsive gesture. 

"I'm not coming. I've been seeing too much of you as it is. If you wantthe truth, I'm just wretchedly unhappy, Natalie. You know I'm in lovewith you, don't you?"

"I believe you think you are. "

"Don't laugh. " He almost snarled. "I may laugh at my idiocy, but youhaven't any right to. I know I'm ridiculous. I've known it for months. But it's pretty serious for me. "

He had meant it. There could be no doubt of that. It is the curiousquality of very selfish women that they inspire a certain sort of love. They are likely to be loved often, even tho the devotion they inspire isneither deep nor lasting. Big and single-hearted women are loved by oneman, and that forever. 

Natalie had not laughed, but she had done what was almost as bad. Shehad patted him on the arm. 

"Don't talk like that, " she said, gently. "You are all I have now, Rodney, and I don't want to lose you. I'm suffering horribly these days. You're my greatest comfort. "

"I've heard you say that of a chair. "

"As for loving me, you must not talk like that. Under the circumstances, it's indelicate. "

"Oh!" he had said, and looked at her quickly. "I can love you, but it'sindelicate to tell you about it!"

"I am married, Rodney. "

"Good God, do you think I ever forget it?"

There was a real change in their relationship, but neither of themunderstood it. The change was that Rodney was no longer playing. Littleby little he had dropped his artistic posing for her benefit, hiscynical cleverness, his adroit simulation of passion. He no longerdramatized himself, because rather often he forgot himself entirely. Hispassion had ceased to be spurious, and it was none the less real becausehe loved not a real woman, but one of his own artistic creation. 

He saw in Natalie a misunderstood and suffering woman, bearing theburdens he knew of with dignity and a certain beauty. And behind herslightly theatrical silences he guessed at other griefs, nobly borne andonly gently intimated. He developed, after a time, a certain suspicionof Clayton, not of his conduct but of his character. These big men wereoften hard. It was that quality which made them successful. They marriedtender, gentle girls, and then repressed and trampled on them. 

Natalie became, in his mind, a crushed and broken thing, infinitelylonely and pathetic. And, without in the least understanding, Natalieinstinctively knew it was when she was wistful and dependent that hefound her most attractive, and became wistful and dependent to a pointthat imposed even on herself. 

"I've been very selfish with you, Rodney, dear, " she said, lifting sadeyes to his. "I am going to be better. You must come often this summer, and I'll have some nice girls for you to play with. "

"Thank you, " he said, stiffly. 

"We'll have to be as gay as we can, " she sighed. "I'm just a littledreary these days, you know. "

It was rather absurd that they were in a shop, and that the clerk shouldreturn just then with curtain cords, and that the discussion of certainshades of yellow made an anti-climax to it all. But in the car, later, he turned to her, roughly. 

"You needn't ask any girls for me, " he said. "I only want one woman, andif I can't have her I don't want any one. "

At first the very fact that he could not have her had been, unconsciously, the secret of her attraction. She was a perfect thing, and unattainable. He could sigh for her with longing and perfect safety. But as time went on, with that incapacity of any human emotion to standstill, but either to go on or to go back, his passion took on a morehuman and less poetic aspect. She satisfied him less, and he wantedmore. 

For one thing, he dreamed that strange dream of mankind, of making iceburn, of turning snow to fire. The old chimera of turning the cold womanto warmth through his own passion began to obsess him. Sometimes hewatched Natalie, and had strange fancies. He saw her lit from within bya fire, which was not the reflection of his, but was recklessly her own. How wonderful she would be, he thought. And at those times he had wildvisions of going away with her into some beautiful wilderness and thereteaching her what she had missed in life. 

But altho now he always wanted her, he was not always thinking ofa wilderness. It was in his own world that he wanted her, to fitbeautifully into his house, to move, exquisitely dressed, throughball-rooms beside him. He wanted her, at those times, as the mostperfect of all his treasures. He was still a collector!

The summer only served to increase his passion. During the long hotdays, when Clayton was abroad or in Washington, or working late atnight, as he frequently did how, they were much together. Natalie'splans for gayety had failed dismally. The city and the country housesnear were entirely lacking in men. She found it a real grievance. 

"I don't know what we are coming to, " she complained. "The country clubis like a girl's boarding-school. I wish to heaven the war was over, andthings were sensible again. "

So, during his week-end visits, they spent most of the time together. There were always girls there, and now and then a few men, who alwaysexplained immediately that they had been turned down for the service, orwere going in the fall. 

"I'm sure somebody has to stay home and attend to things here, " she saidto him one August night. "But even when they are in America, they arerushing about, pretending to do things. One would think to see Claytonthat he is the entire government. It's absurd. "

"I wish I could go, " he said unexpectedly. 

"Don't be idiotic. You're much too old. "

"Not as old as Clay. "

"Oh, Clay! He's in a class by himself. " She laughed lightly. 

"Where is he now?"

"In France, I think. Probably telling them how to run the war. "

"When is he coming back?"

"I don't know. What do you mean by wishing you could go?"

"Do you want me to tell you the truth?"

"Not if it's disagreeable. "

"Well, I will, and it's not very agreeable. I can't keep this up, Natalie. I can't keep on coming here, being in Clayton's house, andeating his bread, while I'm in love with his wife. It isn't decent. "

He flung away his cigaret, and bent forward. 

"Don't you see that?" he asked gently. "Not while he is working for thecountry, and Graham is abroad. "

"I don't see why war needs to deprive me of my friends. I've losteverything else. "

His morals were matters of his private life, and they had been neitherbetter nor worse than the average. But he had breeding and a sure senseof the fitness of things, and this present week-end visit, with theostentatious care the younger crowd took to allow him time to seeNatalie alone, was galling to him. It put him in a false position;what hurt more, perhaps, in an unfavorable light. The war had changedstandards, too. Men were being measured, especially by women, and thosewho failed to measure up were being eliminated with cruel swiftness, especially the men who stayed at home. 

With all this, too, there was a growing admiration for Clayton Spencerin their small circle. His name had been mentioned in connection withan important position in Washington. In the clubs there was considerablepraise and some envy. And Rodney knew that his affair with Natalie wasthe subject of much invidious comment. 

"Do you love him?" he asked, suddenly. 

"I--why, of course I do. "

"Do you mean that?"

"I don't see what that has to do with our friendship. "

"Oh--friendship! You know how I feel, and yet you go on, bringing upthat silly word. If you love him, you don't--love me, and yet you've letme hang around all these months, knowing I am mad about you. You don'tplay the game, Natalie. "

"What do you want to say?"

"If you don't love Clayton, why don't you tell him so? He's honestenough. And I miss my guess if he wants a wife who--cares for somebodyelse. "

She sat in the dusk, thinking, and he watched her. She looked verylovely in the setting which he himself had designed for her. She hatedchange; she loathed trouble, of any sort. And she was, those days, justa little afraid of that strange, quiet Clayton who seemed eternallyengrossed in war and the things of war. She glanced about, at the whitetrellises that gleamed in the garden, at the silvery fleur de lis whichwas the fountain, at all the lovely things with which Clayton's wealthhad allowed her to surround herself. And suddenly she knew she could notgive them up. 

"I don't see why you have to spoil everything, " she said fretfully. "Ithad been so perfect. Of course I'm not going to say anything to Clay. Hehas enough to worry him now, " she added, virtuously. 

Suddenly Rodney stooped and kissed her, almost savagely. 

"Then I'm going, " he said. And to her great surprise he went. 

Alone in his room up-stairs Rodney had, in his anger, a glimpse ofinsight. He saw her, her life filled with small emotions, lacking thecourage for big ones. He saw her, like a child, clutching one pieceof cake and holding out a hand for another. He saw her, taking always, giving never. 

"She's not worth it, " he muttered. 

On the way to the station he reflected bitterly over the past year. Hedid not blame her so much as he blamed himself. He had been playing agame, an attractive game. During the first months of it his interest inNatalie had been subordinate to his interest in her house. He had beencreating a beautiful thing, and he had had a very real joy in it. Butlately he knew that his work on the house had been that he might build abackground for Natalie. He had put into it the best of his ability, andshe was not worth it. 

For some days he neither wrote nor called her up. He was not happy, buthe had a sense of relief. He held his head a trifle higher, was his ownman again, and he began to make tentative inquiries as to whether hecould be useful in the national emergency or not. He was half-hearted atfirst, but he found out something. The mere fact that he wanted to workin some capacity brought back some of his old friends. They had seemedto drop away, before, but they came back heartily and with hands out. 

"Work?" said Terry Mackenzie, at the club one day, looking up from thebilliard table, where he was knocking balls about, rather at haphazard. "Why, of course you can work. What about these new cantonments we'rebuilding all over the country? You ought to be useful there. They don'twant 'em pretty, tho. " And Terry had laughed. But he put down his cueand took Rodney by the arm. 

"Let's ask Nolan about it, " he said. "He's in the reading-room, tearingthe British strategy to pieces. He knows everything these days, from thedraft law to the month's shipping losses. Come along. "

It was from Nolan, however, that Rodney first realized how seriouslyClayton's friends were taking his affair with Natalie, and that not atfirst from anything he said. It was an indefinable aloofness of manner, a hostility of tone. Nolan never troubled himself to be agreeable unlessit suited his inclination, and apparently Terry found nothing unusual inhis attitude. But Rodney did. 

"Something he could build?" said Nolan, repeating Terry's question. "How do I know? There's a lot of building going on, Page, but it's notexactly your sort. " And there was a faint note of contempt in his voice. 

"Who would be the man to see in Washington?" Rodney inquired. 

"I'll look it up and let you know. You might call me up to-morrow. "

Old Terry, having got them together, went back to his billiards and leftthem. Nolan sat down and picked up his paper, with an air of ending theinterview. But he put it down again as Rodney turned to leave the room. 

"Page!"

"Yes?"

"D'you mind having a few minutes talk?"

Rodney braced himself. 

"Not at all. "

But Nolan was slow to begin. He sat, newspaper on his knee, his deep-seteyes thoughtful. When he began it was slowly. 

"I am one of Clay Spencer's oldest friends, " he said. "He's a white man, the whitest man I know. Naturally, anything that touches him touches me, in a way. "

"Well?"

"The name stands for a good bit, too. His father and his grandfatherwere the same sort. It's not often in this town that we have threegenerations without a breath of scandal against them. "

Rodney flushed angrily. 

"What has that got to do with me?" he demanded. 

"I don't know. I don't want to know. I simply wanted to tell youthat there are a good many of us who take a peculiar pride in ClaytonSpencer, and who resent anything that reflects on a name we respectrather highly. "

"That sounds like a threat. "

"Not at all. I was merely calling your attention to something I thoughtperhaps you had forgotten. " Then he got up' and his tone changed, becamebrisk, almost friendly. "Now, about this building thing. If you're inearnest I think it can be managed. You won't get any money to speak of, you know. "

"I don't want any money, " sullenly. 

"Fine. You'll probably have to go west somewhere, and you'll be set downin the center of a hundred corn-fields and told to make them overnightinto a temporary town. I suppose you've thought of all that?"

"I'll go wherever I'm sent. "

"Come along to the telephone, then. "

Rodney hesitated. He felt cheap and despicable, and his anger was stillhot. They wanted to get him out of town. He saw that. They took littleenough trouble to hide it. Well, he would go. He wanted to go anyhow, and he would show them something, too, if he got a chance. He wouldshow them that he was as much a man as Clayton Spencer. He eyed Nolan'sinsolently slouching figure with furious eyes. But he followed him. 

Had he secured an immediate appointment things might have been differentfor him. Like Chris Valentine, he had had one decent impulse, and likeChris too, there was a woman behind it. But Chris had been able to acton his impulse at once, and Rodney was compelled to wait while the millsof the government ground slowly. 

Then, on the fourteenth of August, Natalie telegraphed him:

"Have had bad news about Graham. Can you come?"

He thought of Graham ill, possibly dead, and he took the next train, late in the evening. It was mid-week and Natalie was alone. Hehad thought of that possibility in the train and he was miserablyuncomfortable, with all his joy at the prospect of seeing her again. He felt that the emergency must be his justification. Clayton was stillabroad, and even his most captious critics would admit that Natalieshould have a friend by if she were in trouble. Visions of Grahamwounded filled his mind. He was anxious, restless and in a state of thehighest nervous tension. 

And there was no real emergency. 

He found Natalie in the drawing-room, pacing the floor. She was still inher morning dress, and her eyes were red and swollen. She gave him bothher hands, and he was surprised to find them cold as ice. 

"I knew you would come, " she said. "I am so alone, so terrified. "

He could hardly articulate. 

"What is it?"

"Graham has been ordered abroad. "

He stood still, staring at her, and then he dropped her hands. 

"Is that all?" he asked, dully. 

"No. "

"Good heavens, Natalie! Tell me. I've been frantic with anxiety aboutyou. "

"He was married to-night to Delight Haverford. "

And still he stared at her. 

"Then he's not hurt, or ill?"

"I didn't say he was. Good gracious, Rodney, isn't that bad enough?"

"But--what did you expect? He would have to go abroad some time. Youknew that. I'm sorry, but--why in God's name didn't you say in your wirewhat the trouble was?"

"You sound exactly like Clay. "

She was entirely incapable of understanding. She stood before him, straight and resentful, and yet strangely wistful and appealing. 

"I send you word that my only son is going to France, that he hasmarried without so much as consulting me, that he is going to war andmay never come back. I needed you, and you said once that when I neededyou, wherever you were, you would come. So I sent for you, and now youact like--like Clay. "

"Have you any one here?"

"The servants. Good gracious, Rodney, are you worrying about that?"

"Only for you, Natalie. "

"We resent anything that reflects on a name we respect rather highly. "That was what Nolan had said. 

"I'm sorry about Graham, dearest. I am sorry about any trouble thatcomes to you. You know that, Natalie. I'm only regretful that you havelet me place you in an uncomfortable position. If my being here isknown--Look here, Natalie, dear, I hate to bother you, but I'll have totake one of the cars and go back to the city to-night. "

"Aren't you being rather absurd?"

He hesitated. He could not tell her of that awkward talk with Nolan. There were many things he would not tell her; his own desire torehabilitate himself among the men he knew, his own new-born feelingthat to take advantage of Clayton's absence on business connected withthe war was peculiarly indefensible. 

"I shall order the car at once, " she said, and touched a bell. When sheturned he was just behind her, but altho he held out his arms she evadedthem, her eyes hard and angry. 

"I wish you would try to understand, " he said. 

"I do, very thoroughly. Too thoroughly. You are afraid for yourself, notfor me. I am in trouble, but that is a secondary consideration. Don'tbother about me, Rodney. I have borne a great deal alone in my life, andI can bear this. "

She turned, and went with considerable dignity out of the door. 

"Natalie!" he called. But he heard her with a gentle rustle of silksgoing up the staircase. It did not add to his comfort that she had lefthim to order the car. 

All through the night Rodney rode and thought. He was angry at Natalie, but he was angrier at himself. He felt that he had been brutal, unnecessarily callous. After all, her only son was on his way to war. It was on the cards that he might not come back. And he had let hisuneasiness dominate his sympathy. He had lost her, but then he had neverhad her. He never could have her. 

Half way to town, on a back road, the car broke down, and after vainlyendeavoring to start it the chauffeur set off on foot to secure help. Rodney slept, uncomfortably, and wakened with the movement of themachine to find it broad day. That was awkward, for Natalie's car wasconspicuous, marked too with her initials. He asked to be set down at asuburban railway station, and was dismayed to find it crowded with earlycommuters, who stared at the big car with interest. On the platform, eyeing him with unfriendly eyes, was Nolan. Rodney made a movementtoward him. The situation was intolerable, absurd. But Nolan turned hisback and proceeded to read his newspaper. 

Perhaps not in years had Rodney Page faced the truth about himself soclearly as he did that morning, riding into the city on the train whichcarried, somewhere ahead, that quietly contemptuous figure that wasDenis Nolan. Faced the truth, saw himself for what he was, and loathedthe thing he saw. For a little time, too, it was given him to seeNatalie for what she was, for what she would always be, her solecontribution to life the web of her selfishness, carefully woven, floating apparently aimlessly, and yet snaring and holding relentlesslywhatever it touched. Killing freedom. He saw Clayton and Graham andhimself, feeders for her monstrous complacency and vanity, and he made adefinite determination to free himself. 

"I'm through, " he reflected savagely. "I'll show them something, too. I'll--"

He hesitated. How lovely she was! And she cared for him. She was smalland selfish and unspeakably vain, but she cared for him. 

The war had done something for Rodney Page. He no longer dreamed theold dream, of turning her ice to fire. But he dreamed, for a moment, something finer. He saw Natalie his, and growing big and fine throughlove. He saw himself and Natalie, like cards in the game of life, re-dealt. A new combination; a winning hand--

CHAPTER XLVII

Very quietly Audrey had taken herself out of Clayton's life. She senthim a little note of farewell:

"We have had ten very wonderful months, Clay, " she wrote. "We ought tobe very happy. So few have as much. And we both know that this can'tgo on. I am going abroad. I have an opportunity to go over and see whatEnglishwomen are doing in the way of standing behind their men at war. Then I am to tell our women at home. Not that they need it now, blessthem!

"I believe you will be glad to know that I am to be on the same side ofthe ocean with Graham. I could get to him, I think, if anything shouldgo wrong. Will you send him the enclosed address?

"But, my dear, the address is for him, not for you. You must not writeto me. I have used up every particle of moral courage I possess, asit is. And I am holding this in my mind, as you must. Time is a greathealer of all wounds. We could have been happy together; oh, my dear, so very happy together! Now that I am going, let me be frank for once. Ihave given you the finest thing I am capable of. I am better for caringfor you as I have, as I do. 

"But those days in the hospital told me we couldn't go on. Things likethat don't stand still. Maybe--we are only human, Clay--maybe if the olddays were still here we might have compromised with life. I don't know. But I do know that we never will, now. 

"After all, we have had a great deal, and we still have. It is awonderful thing to know that somewhere in the world is some oneperson who loves you. To waken up in the morning to it. To go to sleepremembering it. And to have kept that love fine and clean is a wonderfulthing, too. 

"I am not always on a pinnacle. There have been plenty of times when themere human want of you has sent me to the dust. Is it wrong to tell youthat? But of course not. You know it. But you and I know this; Clay, dear. Love that is hopeless, that can not end in marriage, does one oftwo things. Either it degrades or it exalts. It leaves its mark, always, but that mark does not need to be a stain. "

Clayton lived, for a time after that, in a world very empty and veryfull. The new plant was well under way. Not only was he about to makeshells for the government at a nominal profit, but Washington was askinghim to assume new and wide responsibilities. He accepted. He wanted soto fill the hours that there would be no time to remember. But, morethan that, he was actuated by a fine and glowing desire to serve. Perhaps, underlying it all was the determination to be, in every way, the man Audrey thought him to be. And there was, too, a square-jawedresolution to put behind Graham, and other boys like Graham, all theshells and ammunition they needed. 

He worked hard; more than hard. Old Terry, meeting him one day in thewinter that followed, was shocked at his haggard face. 

"Better take a little time off, Clay, " he suggested. "We're going toMiami next week. How about ten days or so? Fishing is good this year. "

"Can't very well take a holiday just now. Too much to do, Terry. "

Old Terry went home and told his wife. 

"Looks like the devil, " he said. "He'll go down sick one of these days. I suppose it's no use telling Natalie. "

"None whatever, " said Mrs. Terry. "And, anyhow, it's a thing I shouldn'tcare to tell Natalie. "

"What do you mean, not care to tell Natalie?"

"Hard work doesn't make a man forget how to smile. "

"Oh, come now. He's cheerful enough. If you mean because Graham'sfighting?"

"That's only part of it, " said Mrs. Terry, sagely, and relapsed intoone of the poignant silences that drove old Terry to a perfect frenzy ofcuriosity. 

Then, in January of 1918, a crisis came to Clayton and Natalie Spencer. Graham was wounded. 

Clayton was at home when the news came. Natalie had been having one ofher ill-assorted, meticulously elaborate dinner-parties, and when theguests had gone they were for a moment alone in the drawing-roomof their town house. Clayton was fighting in himself the sense ofirritation Natalie's dinners always left, especially the recent ones. She was serving, he knew, too much food. In the midst of the agitationon conservation, her dinners ran their customary seven courses. Therewas too much wine, too. But it occurred to him that only the wine hadmade the dinner endurable. 

Then he tried to force himself into better humor. Natalie was as shewas, and if, in an unhappy, struggling, dying world she found happinessin display, God knew there was little enough happiness. He was not athome very often. He could not spoil her almost childish content in thesmall things that made up her life. 

"I think it was very successful, " she said, surveying herself in one ofthe corner mirrors. "Do you like my gown, Clay?"

"It's very lovely. "

"It's new. I've been getting some clothes, Clay. You'll probably shriekat the bills. But all this talk about not buying clothes is nonsense, you know. The girls who work in the shops have to live. "

"Naturally. Of course there is other work open to them now. "

"In munition plants, I daresay. To be blown up!"

He winced. The thought of that night the year before, when the plantwent, still turned him sick. 

"Don't buy too many things, my dear, " he said, gently. "You know howthings are. "

"I know it's your fault that they are as they are, " she persisted. "Oh, I know it was noble of you, and all that. The country's crazy about you. But still I think it was silly. Every one else is making money out ofthings, and you--a lot of thanks you'll get, when the war's over. "

"I don't particularly want thanks. "

Then the door-bell rang in the back of the house, and Buckham answeredit. He was conscious at once that Natalie stiffened, and that she waswatchful and a trifle pale. Buckham brought in a telegram on a tray. 

"Give it to me, Buckham, " Natalie said, in a strained voice. And heldout her hand for it. When she saw it was for Clayton, however, sherelaxed. As he tore it open, Clayton was thinking. Evidently Nataliehad been afraid of his seeing some message for her. Was it possible thatNatalie--He opened it. After what seemed a long time he looked up. Hereyes were on him. 

"Don't be alarmed, my dear, " he said. "It is not very bad. But Grahamhas been slightly wounded. Sit down, " he said sharply, as he saw hersway. 

"You are lying to me, " she said in a dreadful voice. "He's dead!"

"He is not dead, Natalie. " He tried to put her into a chair, but sheresisted him fiercely. 

"Let me alone. I want to see that telegram. "

And, very reluctantly, at last he gave it to her. Graham was severelywounded. It was from a man in his own department at Washington who hadjust seen the official list. The nature of his wounding had not beenstated. 

Natalie looked up from the telegram with a face like a painted mask. 

"This is your doing, " she said. "You wanted him to go. You sent him intothis. He will die, and you will have murdered him. "

The thought came to him, in that hour of stress, that she was right. Pitifully, damnably right. He had not wanted Graham to go, but he hadwanted him to want to go. A thousand thoughts flashed through his mind, of Delight, sleeping somewhere quietly after her day's work at the camp;of Graham himself, of that morning after the explosion, and his frank, pitiful confession. And again of Graham, suffering, perhaps dying, andwith none of his own about him. And through it all was the feeling thathe must try to bring Natalie to reason, that it was incredible that sheshould call him his own son's murderer. 

"We must not think of his dying, " he said. "We must only think that heis going to live, and to come back to us, Natalie dear. "

She flung off the arm he put around her. 

"And that, " he went on, feeling for words out of the dreadful confusionin his mind, "if--the worst comes, that he has done a magnificent thing. There is no greater thing, Natalie. "

"That won't bring him back to us, " she said, still in that frozen voice. And suddenly she burst into hard, terrible crying. 

All that night he sat outside her door, for she would not allow him tocome in. He had had Washington on the telephone, but when at last hegot the connection it was to learn that no further details were known. Toward dawn there came the official telegram from the War Department, but it told nothing more. 

Natalie was hysterical. He had sent for a doctor, and with Madeleinein attendance the medical man had worked over her for hours. Going out, toward morning, he had found Clayton in the hall and had looked at himsharply. 

"Better go to bed, Mr. Spencer, " he advised. "It may not be as bad asyou think. And they're doing fine surgery over there. "

And, as Clayton shook his head:

"Mrs. Spencer will come round all right. She's hysterical, naturally. She'll be sending for you before long. "

With the dawn, Clayton's thoughts cleared. If he and Natalie were everto get together at all, it should be now, with this common grief betweenthem. Perhaps, after all, it was not too late to re-build his houseof life. He had failed. Perhaps they had both failed, but the realresponsibility was his. Inside the room he could hear her moaning, alow, monotonous, heart-breaking moan. He was terribly sorry for her. Shehad no exaltation to help her, no strength of soul, no strength of anysort. And, as men will under stress, he tried to make a bargain with hisGod. 

"Let him live, " he prayed. "Bring him back to us, and I will try again. I'll do better. I've been a rotten failure, as far as she is concerned. But I'll try. "

He felt somewhat better after that, altho he felt a certain ignominy, too, that always, until such a time, he had gone on his own, as it were, and that now, when he no longer sufficed for himself, he should beseechthe Almighty. 

Natalie had had a sleeping-powder, and at last he heard her moaningcease and the stealthy movements of her maid as she lowered the windowshades. It was dawn. 

During the next two days Clayton worked as he never had worked before, still perhaps with that unspoken pact in mind. Worked too, to forget. Hehad sent several cables, but no reply came until the third day. He didnot sleep at night. He did not even go to bed. He sat in the low chairin his dressing-room, dozing occasionally, to waken with a start at somesound in the hall. Now and again, as the trained nurse who was watchingNatalie at night moved about the hallways, he would sit up, expecting asummons that did not come. 

She still refused to see him. It depressed and frightened him, for howcould he fulfill his part of the compact when she so sullenly shut himout of her life?

He was singularly simple in his fundamental beliefs. There was a GreatPower somewhere, call it what one might, and it dealt out justiceor mercy as one deserved it. On that, of course, had been built anelaborate edifice of creed and dogma, but curiously enough it all fellaway now. He was, in those night hours, again the boy who had prayed forfair weather for circus day and had promised in return to read his Biblethrough during the next year. And had done it. 

In the daytime, however, he was a man, suffering terribly, and facingthe complexities of his life alone. One thing he knew. This wasdecisive. Either, under the stress of a common trouble, he and Nataliewould come together, to make the best they could of the years to come, or they would be hopelessly alienated. 

But that was secondary to Graham. Everything was secondary to Graham, indeed. He had cabled Audrey, and he drew a long breath when, on thethird day, a cable came from her. She had located Graham at last. He hadbeen shot in the chest, and there were pneumonia symptoms. 

"Shall stay with him, "' she ended, "and shall send daily reports. "

Next to his God, he put his faith in Audrey. Almost he prayed to her. 

Dunbar, now a captain in the Military Intelligence Bureau, visiting himin his office one day, found Clayton's face an interesting study. Oldlines of repression, new ones of anxiety, marked him deeply. 

"The boy, of course, " he thought. And then reflected that it takes timeto carve such lines as were written in the face of the man across thedesk from him. Time and a woman, he considered shrewdly. His mind harkedback to that dinner in the Spencer house when diplomatic relations hadbeen broken off with. Germany, and war seemed imminent. It was the wife, probably. He remembered that she had been opposed to war, and to theboy's going. There were such women in the country. There were fewerof them all the time, but they existed, women who saw in war onlysacrifice. Women who counted no cost too high for peace. If they onlyhurt themselves it did not matter, but they could and did do incredibledamage. 

Clayton was going through some papers he had brought, and Dunbar hadtime to consider what to him was an interesting problem. Mrs. Spencerhad kept the boy from immediate enlistment. He had wanted to go; Dunbarknew that. If she had allowed him to go the affair with Anna Klein wouldhave been ended. He knew all that story now. Then, if there had beenno affair, Herman would not have blown up the munition works and a goodmany lives, valuable to themselves at least, might have been saved. 

"Curious!" he reflected. "One woman! And she probably sleeps well atnights and goes to church on Sundays!"

Clayton passed back his papers, and ran a hand over his heavy hair. 

"They seem to be all right, " he said. 

Dunbar rose. 

"Hope the next news will be better, Mr. Spencer. "

"I hope so. "

"I haven't told you, I think, that we have traced Rudolph Klein. "

Clayton's face set. 

"He's got away, unfortunately. Over the border into Mexico. They havea regular system there, the Germans--an underground railway to MexicoCity. They have a paymaster on our side of the line. They even bankin one of our banks! Oh, we'll get them yet, of course, but they'redamnably clever. "

"I suppose there is no hope of getting Rudolph Klein?"

"Not while the Germans are running Mexico, " Captain Dunbar replied, dryly. "He's living in a Mexican town just over the border. We'rewatching him. If he puts a foot on this side we'll grab him. "

Clayton sat back after he had gone. He was in his old office at themill, where Joey had once formed his unofficial partnership with thefirm. Outside in the mill yard there was greater activity than ever, but many of the faces were new. The engineer who had once run the yardengine was building bridges in France. Hutchinson had heard the call, and was learning to fly in Florida, The service flag over his officedoor showed hundreds of stars, and more were being added constantly. Joey dead. Graham wounded, his family life on the verge of disruption, and Audrey--

Then, out of the chaos there came an exaltation. He had given himself, his son, the wealth he had hoped to have, but, thank God, he had hadsomething to give. There were men who could give nothing, like old TerryMackenzie, knocking billiard-balls around at the club, and profanelywistful that he had had no son to go. His mind ranged over thosepathetic, prosperous, sonless men who filed into the club late in theafternoons, and over the last editions and whisky-and-sodas fought theirfutile warfare, their battle-ground a newspaper map, their upraisedvoices their only weapons. 

On parade days, when the long lines of boys in khaki went by, they weresilent, heavy, inutile. They were too old to fight. The biggest thing intheir lives was passing them by, as passed the lines of marching boys, and they had no part in it. They were feeding their hungry spirits onthe dregs of war, on committee meetings and public gatherings, and theywere being useful. But the great exaltation of offering their best wasnot for them. 

He was living a tragedy, but a greater tragedy was that of thechildless. And back of that again was the woman who had not wantedchildren. There were many men to-day who were feeling the selfishness ofa woman at home, men who had lost, somehow, their pride, theirfeeling of being a part of great things. Men who went home at night tocomfortable dwellings, with no vacant chair at the table, and dined in apeace they had not earned. 

Natalie had at least given him a son. 

He took that thought home with him in the evening. He stopped at aflorist's and bought a great box of flowers for her, and sent them intoher room with a little note, "Won't you let me come in and try to comfort you?"

But Madeleine brought the box out again, and there was pity in her eyes. 

"Mrs. Spencer can not have them in the room, sir. She says the odor offlowers makes her ill. "

He knew Madeleine had invented the excuse, that Natalie had simplyrejected his offering. He went down-stairs, and made a pretense ofdining alone in the great room. 

It was there that Audrey's daily cable found him. Buckham brought it inin shaking fingers, and stood by, white and still, while he opened it. 

Clayton stood up. He was very white, but his voice was full and strong. 

"He is better, Buckham! Better!"

Suddenly Buckham was crying. His austere face was distorted, his leanbody trembling. Clayton put his arm around the bowed old shoulders. 

And in that moment, as they stood there, master and man, Clayton Spencerhad a flash of revelation. There was love and love. The love of a manfor a woman, and of a woman for a man, of a mother for the child at herknee, of that child for its mother. But that the great actuating motiveof a man's maturity, of the middle span, was vested along with hisdreams, his pride and his love, in his son, his man-child. 

Buckham, carrying his coffee into the library somewhat later, foundhim with his head down on his desk, and the cablegram clutched in hisoutstretched hands. He tip-toed out, very quietly. 

CHAPTER XLVIII

Clayton's first impulse was to take the cable to Natalie, to brushaside the absurd defenses she had erected, and behind which she cowered, terrified but obstinate. To say to her, "He is living. He is going to live. But this war is not over yet. Ifwe want him to come through, we must stand together. We must deserve tohave him come back to us. "

But by the time he reached the top of the stairs he knew he could notdo it. She would not understand. She would think he was using Grahamto further a reconciliation; and, after her first joy was over, he knewthat he would see again that cynical smile that always implied that hewas dramatizing himself. 

Nothing could dim his strong inner joy, but something of its outer glowfaded. He would go to her, later. Not now. Nothing must spoil this greatthankfulness of his. 

He gave Madeleine the cable, and went down again to the library. 

After a time he began to go over the events of the past eighteen months. His return from the continent, and that curious sense of unrest that hadfollowed it, the opening of his eyes to the futility of his life. Hisfailure to Natalie and her failure to him. Graham, made a man by war andby the love of a good woman. Chris, ending his sordid life in a blaze ofglory, and forever forgiven his tawdry sins because of his one big hour. 

War took, but it gave also. It had taken Joey, for instance, but Joeyhad had his great moment. It was better to have one great moment and diethan to drag on through useless years. And it was the same way with anation. A nation needed its hour. It was only in a crisis that it couldknow its own strength. How many of them, who had been at that dinnerof Natalie's months before, had met their crisis bravely! Nolan wasin France now. Doctor Haverford was at the front. Audrey was nursingGraham. Marion Hayden was in a hospital training-School. Rodney Pagewas still building wooden barracks in a cantonment in Indiana, and wasmaking good. He himself--

They could never go back, none of them, to the old smug, complacent, luxurious days. They could no more go back than Joey could return tolife again. War was the irrevocable step, as final as death itself. Andhe remembered something Nolan had said, just before he sailed. 

"We have had one advantage, Clay. Or maybe it is not an advantage, afterall. Do you realize that you and I have lived through the Golden Age? Wehave seen it come and seen it go. The greatest height of civilization, since the world began, the greatest achievements, the most opulentliving. And we saw it all crash. It will be a thousand years before theworld will be ready for another. "

And later, "I suppose every life has its Golden Age. Generally we think it isyouth. I'm not so sure. Youth is looking ahead. It has its hopes and itsdisappointments. The Golden Age in a man's life ought to be the age offulfillment. It's nearer the forties than the twenties. "

"Have you reached it?"

"I'm going to, on the other side. "

And Clayton had smiled. 

"You are going to reach it, " he said. "We are always going to find it, Nolan. It is always just ahead. "

And Nolan had given him one of his quick understanding glances. 

There could be no Golden Age for him. For the Golden Age for a man meantfulfillment. The time came to every man when he must sit at the westwindow of his house of life and look toward the sunset. If he faced thatsunset alone--

He heard Madeleine carrying down Natalie's dinner-tray, and when sheleft the pantry she came to the door of the library. 

"Mrs. Spencer would like to see you, sir. "

"Thank you, Madeleine. I'll go up very soon. "

Suddenly he knew that he did not want to go up to Natalie's scentedroom. She had shut him out when she was in trouble. She had not caredthat he, too, was in distress. She had done her best to invalidate thatcompact he had made. She had always invalidated him. 

To go back to the old way, to the tribute she enforced to feed herinordinate vanity, to the old hypocrisy of their relationship, to liveagain the old lie, was impossible. 

He got up. He would not try to buy himself happiness at the cost ofturning her adrift. But he must, some way, buy his self-respect. 

He heard her then, on the staircase, that soft rustle which, it seemedto him, had rasped the silk of his nerves all their years together withits insistence on her dainty helplessness, her femininity, her right toprotection. The tap of her high heels came closer. He drew a long breathand turned, determinedly smiling, to face the door. 

Almost at once he saw that she was frightened. She had taken pains tolook her best--but then she always did that. She was rouged to the eyes, and the floating white chiffon of her negligee gave to her slim body theillusion of youth, that last illusion to which she so desperately clung. But--she was frightened. 

She stood in the doorway, one hand holding aside the heavy velvetcurtain, and looked at him with wide, penciled eyes. 

"Clay?"

"Yes. Come in. Shall I have Buckham light a fire?"

She came in, slowly. 

"Do you suppose that cable is reliable?"

"I should think so. "

"He may have a relapse. "

"We mustn't worry about what may come. He is better now. The chances arethat he'll stay better. "

"Probably. I suppose, because I have been so ill--"

He felt the demand for sympathy, but he had none to give. And he feltsomething else. Natalie was floundering, an odd word for her, alwaysso sure of herself. She was frightened, unsure of herself, and--floundering. Why?

"Are you going to be in to-night?"

"Yes. "

She gave a curious little gesture. Then she evidently made up her mindand she faced him defiantly. 

"Of course, if I had known he was going to be better, I'd--Clay, I wiredyesterday for Rodney Page. He arrives to-night. "

"Rodney?"

"Yes. "

"I don't think I quite understand, Natalie. Why did you wire for him?"

"You wouldn't understand, of course. I was in trouble. He has been mybest friend. I tried to bear it alone, but I couldn't. I--"

"Alone! You wouldn't see me. "

"I couldn't, Clay. "

"Why?"

"Because--if Graham had died--"

Her mouth trembled. She put her hand to her throat. 

"You would have blamed me for his death?"

"Yes. "

"Then, even now, if--"

"Yes. "

The sheer cruelty of it sent him pale. Yet it was not so much deliberateas unconscious. She was forcing herself to an unwonted honesty. It washer honest conviction that he was responsible for Graham's wounding anddanger. 

"Let me get to the bottom of this, " he said quietly. "You hold meresponsible. Very well. How far does that take us? How far does thattake you? To Rodney!"

"You needn't be brutal. Rodney understands me. He--he cares for me, Clay. "

"I see. And, since you sent for him I take it you care for Rodney. "

"I don't know. I--"

"Isn't it time you do know? For God's sake, Natalie, make up your mindto some course and stick to it. "

But accustomed as he was to the curious turns of her mind, he was stillastounded to have her turn on him and accuse him of trying to get ridof her. It was not until later that he realized in that attitude of hersher old instinct of shifting the responsibility from her own shoulders. 

And then Rodney was announced. 

The unreality of the situation persisted. Rodney's strained face anduneasy manner, his uniform, the blank pause when he had learned thatGraham was better, and when the ordinary banalities of greetingwere over. Beside Clayton he looked small, dapper, and wretchedlyuncomfortable, and yet even Clayton had to acknowledge a sort of dignityin the man. 

He felt sorry for him, for the disillusion that was to come. And at thesame time he felt an angry contempt for him, that he should have forcedso theatrical a situation. That the night which saw Graham's beginningrecovery should be tarnished by the wild clutch after happiness of twopeople who had done so little to earn it. 

He saw another, totally different scene, for a moment. He saw Graham inhis narrow bed that night in some dimly-lighted hospital ward, and hesaw Audrey beside him, watching and waiting and praying. A wild desireto be over there, one of that little group, almost overcame him. Andinstead--

"Natalie has not been well, Rodney, " he said. "I rather think, if youhave anything to say to me, we would better talk alone. "

Natalie went out, her draperies trailing behind her. Clayton listened, as she moved slowly up the stairs. For the last time he heard thatsoft rustling which had been the accompaniment to so many of the mostpoignant hours of his life. He listened until it had died away. 

CHAPTER XLIX

For months Rudolph Klein had been living in a little Mexican town on theborder. There were really two towns, but they were built together withonly a strip of a hundred feet between. Along this strip ran theborder itself, with a tent pitched on the American side, and patrols ofsoldiers guarding it. The American side was bright and clean, orderlyand self-respecting, but only a hundred feet away, unkempt, dusty, withadobe buildings and a notorious gambling-hell in plain view, was Mexicoitself--leisurely, improvident, not overscrupulous Mexico. 

At first Rudolph was fairly contented. It amused him. He liked theidleness of it. He liked kicking the innumerable Mexican dogs out ofhis way. He liked baiting the croupiers in the "Owl. " He liked wanderinginto that notorious resort and shoving Hindus, Chinamen, and Mexicansout of the way, while he flung down a silver dollar and watched thedealers with cunning, avaricious eyes. 

He liked his own situation, too. It amused him to think that here he wassafe, while only a hundred feet away he was a criminal, fugitive fromthe law. He liked to go to the very border itself, and jeer at the menon guard there. 

"If I was on that side, " he would say, "you'd have me in one of thoserotten uniforms, wouldn't you? Come on over, fellows. The liquor'sfine. "

Then, one day, a Chinaman he had insulted gave him an unexpected shove, and he had managed to save himself by a foot from the clutch of aquiet-faced man in plain clothes who spent a certain amount of timelounging on the other side of the border. 

That had sobered him. He kept away from the border itself after that, although the temptation of it drew him. After a few weeks, when thenovelty had worn off, he began to hunger for the clean little Americantown across the line. He wanted to talk to some one. He wanted to boast, to be candid. These Mexicans only laughed when he bragged to them. Buthe dared not cross. 

There was a high-fenced enclosure behind the "Owl, " the segregateddistrict of the town. There, in tiny one-roomed houses built inrows like barracks were the girls and women who had drifted to thisjumping-off place of the world. In the daytime they slept or sat onthe narrow, ramshackle porches, untidy, noisy, unspeakably wretched. At night, however, they blossomed forth in tawdry finery, in thedancing-space behind the gambling-tables. Some of them were fixtures. They had drifted there from New Orleans, perhaps, or southernCalifornia, and they lacked the initiative or the money to get away. But most of them came in, stayed a month or two, found the place anightmare, with its shootings and stabbings, and then disappeared. 

At first Rudolph was popular in this hell of the underworld. He spentmoney easily, he danced well, he had audacity and a sort of sardonichumor. They asked no questions, those poor wretches who had themselvesslid over the edge of life. They took what came, grateful for littlepleasures, glad even to talk their own tongue. 

And then, one broiling August day, late in the afternoon, when thecompound was usually seething with the first fetid life of the day, Rudolph found it suddenly silent when he entered it, and hostile, contemptuous eyes on him. 

A girl with Anna Klein's eyes, a girl he had begun to fancy, suddenlysaid, "Draft-dodger!"

There was a ripple of laughter around the compound. They commenced tobait him, those women he would not have wiped his feet on at home. Theyliterally laughed him out of the compound. 

He went home to his stifling, windowless adobe room, with its saggingnarrow bed, its candle, its broken crockery, and he stood in the centerof the room and chewed his nails with fury. After a time he sat down andconsidered what to do next. He would have to move on some time. As wellnow as ever. He was sick of the place. 

He began preparations to move on, gathering up the accumulation ofmonths of careless living for destruction. He picked up some newspaperspreparatory to throwing them away, and a name caught his attention. Standing there, inside his doorway in the Mexican dusk, he read ofGraham's recent wounding, his mending, and the fact that he had won theCroix de Guerre. Supreme bitterness was Rudolph's then. 

"Stage stuff!" he muttered. But in the depths of his warped soul therewas bitter envy. He knew well with what frightened yet adoring eyes AnnaKlein had devoured that news of Graham Spencer. While for him therewas the girl in the compound back of the "Owl, " with Anna Klein's eyes, filled when she looked at him with that bitterest scorn of all, thecontempt of the wholly contemptible. 

That night he went to the Owl. He had shaved and had his hair cut andhe wore his only remaining decent suit of clothes. He passed through theswinging gate in the railing which separated the dancing-floor from thetables and went up to the line of girls, sitting in that saddest waitingof all the world, along the wall. There was an ominous silence at hisapproach. He planted himself in front of the girl with eyes like AnnaKlein. 

"Are you going to dance?"

"Not with you, " she replied, evenly. And again the ripple of laughterspread. 

"Why not?"

"Because you're a coward, " she said. "I'd rather dance with a Chinaman. "

"If you think I'm here because I'm afraid to fight you can think again. Not that I care what you think. "

He had meant to boast a little, to intimate that he had pulled off a bigthing, but he saw that he was ridiculous. The situation infuriated him. Suddenly he burst into foul-mouthed invective, until one of the girlssaid, wearily, "Oh, cut that out, you slacker. "

And he knew that no single word he had used against them, out of avocabulary both extensive and horrible, was to them so degraded as thatsingle one applied to him. 

Late that night he received a tip from a dealer at one of vingt-et-untables. There were inquiries being made for him across the border. Thatvery evening he, the dealer, had gone across for a sack of flour, and hehad heard about it. 

"You'd better get out, " said the dealer. 

"I'm as safe here as I'd be in Mexico City. "

"Don't be too sure, son. You're not any too popular here. There's sucha thing as being held up and carried over the border. It's been donebefore now. "

"I'm sick of this hole, anyhow, " Rudolph muttered, and moved away in thecrowd. The mechanical piano was banging in the dance-hall as he slippedout into the darkness, under the clear starlight of the Mexican night, and the gate of the compound stood open. He passed it with an oath. 

Long before, he had provided for such a contingency. By the same agencywhich had got him to the border, he could now be sent further on. Atsomething after midnight, clad in old clothes and carrying on his back arough outfit of a blanket and his remaining wardrobe, he knocked at thedoor of a small adobe house on the border of the town. An elderly Germanwith a candle admitted him. 

"Well, I'm off, " Rudolph said roughly. 

"And time enough, too, " said the German, gruffly. 

Rudolph was sullenly silent. He was in this man's power, and he knew it. But the German was ready enough to do his part. For months he had beendoing this very thing, starting through the desert toward the southslackers and fugitives of all descriptions. He gathered together theequipment, a map with water-holes marked, a canteen covered with a dirtyplaid-cloth casing, a small supply of condensed foods, in tins mostly, and a letter to certain Germans in Mexico City who would receivehospitably any American fugitives and ask no questions. 

"How about money?" Rudolph inquired. 

The German shrugged his shoulders. 

"You will not need money in the desert, " he said. "And you haf spentmuch money here, on the women. You should have safed it. "

"I was told you would give me money. "

But the German shook his head. 

"You viii find money in Mexico City, if you get there, " he said, cryptically. And Rudolph found neither threats nor entreaties of anyavail. 

He started out of the town, turning toward the south and west. Beforehim there stretched days of lonely traveling through the sand and cactusof the desert, of blistering sun and cold nights, of anxious searchesfor water-holes. It was because of the water-holes that he headedsouthwest, for such as they were they lay in tiny hidden oases in thecanyons. Almost as soon as he left the town he was in the desert; adetached ranch, a suggestion of a road, a fenced-in cotton-field or two, an irrigation ditch, and then--sand. 

He was soft from months of inaction, from the cactus whisky of Mexico, too, that ate into a man like a corrosive acid. But he went on steadily, putting behind him as rapidly as possible the border, and the girls whohad laughed at him. He traveled by a pointed mountain which cut off thestars at the horizon, and as the miles behind him increased, in spite ofhis growing fatigue his spirits rose. Before him lay the fulness of lifeagain. Mexico City was a stake worth gambling for. He was gambling, heknew. He had put up his life, and his opponent was thirst. He knew that, well enough, too, and the figure rather amused him. 

"Playing against that, all right, " he muttered. He paused and turnedaround. The sun had lifted over the rim of the desert, a red disc whichturned the gleaming white alkali patches to rose. "By God, " he said, "that's the ante, is it--A red chip!"

A caravan of mules was coming up from the head of the Gulf ofCalifornia. It moved in a cloud of alkali dust and sand, its ore-sackscoated white. The animals straggled along, wandering out of the lineincessantly and thrust back into place by muleteers who cracked longwhips and addressed them vilely. 

At a place where a small rock placed on another marked a side trail towater, the caravan turned and moved toward the mountains. Close as theyappeared, the outfit was three hours getting to the foot hills. Therewas a low meadow now, covered with pale green grass. Quail scurried awayunder the mesquite bushes, stealthily whistling, and here and there thetwo stones still marked the way. 

With the instinct of desert creatures the mules hurried their pace. Pack-saddles creaked, spurs jingled. Life, insistent, thirsty life, quickened the dead plain. 

A man rode ahead. He dug his spurs into his horse and cantered, elbowsflapping, broad-brimmed hat drawn over his eyes. For hours he had beenfighting the demon of thirst. His tongue was dry, his lips cracking. The trail continued to be marked with its double stones, but it did notenter the cool canyon ahead. It turned and skirted the base of the baremountain slope. The man's eyes sharpened. He knew very definitely whathe was looking for, and at last he saw it, a circle of flat stones, sometwenty feet across, the desert sign for a buried spring. 

But there was something inside the circle, something which lay still. The man put his horse to the gallop again. There was a canteen lying inthe trail, a canteen covered with a dirty plaid casing. The horse's hoofstruck it, and it gave out a dry, metallic sound. 

"Poor devil!" muttered the rider. 

He dismounted and turned the figure over. 

"God!" he said. "And water under him all the time!"

Then he dragged the quiet figure outside the ring of stones, and gettinga spade from his saddle, fell to digging in the center. A foot below thesurface water began to appear, clear, cold water. He lay down, flat anddrank out of the pool. 

Clayton Spencer was alone in his house. In the months since Natalie hadgone, he had not been there a great deal. He had been working very hard. He had not been able to shoulder arms, but he had, nevertheless, foughta good fight. 

He was very tired. During the day, a sort of fierce energy upheld him. Because in certain things he had failed he was the more determined tosucceed in others. Not for himself; ambition of that sort had died ofthe higher desire to serve his country. But because the sense of failurein his private life haunted him. 

The house was very quiet. Buckham came in to mend the fire, issuing fromthe shadows like a lean old ghost and eyeing him with tender, faded oldeyes. 

"Is there anything else, sir?"

"Thanks, no. Buckham. "

"Yes, Mr. Spencer. "

"I have not spoken about it, but I think you have understood. Mrs. Spencer is--not coming back. "

"Yes, Mr. Spencer. "

"I had meant to close the house, but certain things--Captain Spencer'swife expects a child. I would rather like to have her come here, for thebirth. After that, if the war is over, I shall turn the house over tothem. You would stay on, I hope, Buckham. "

"I'll stay, sir. I--" His face worked nervously. "I feel toward theCaptain as I would to my own son, sir. I have already thought thatperhaps--the old nursery has been cleaned and aired for weeks, Mr. Spencer. "

Clayton felt a thrill of understanding for the old man through all theyears he had watched and served them. He had reflected their joys andtheir sorrows. He had suffered the family destiny without having shapedit. He had lived, vicariously, their good hours and their bad. And now, in his old age, he was waiting again for the vicarious joy of Graham'schild. 

"But you'll not be leaving the house, sir?"

"I don't know. I shall keep my rooms. But I shall probably live atthe club. The young people ought to be alone, for a while. There arereadjustments--You never married, Buckham?"

"No, Mr. Spencer. I intended to, at one time. I came to this country tomake a home, and as I was rather a long time about it, she married someone else. "

Clayton caught the echo of an old pain in Buckham's repressed voice. Buckham, too! Was there in the life of every man some woman tragedy?Buckham, sitting alone in his west window and looking toward the sunset, Buckham had his memories. 

"She lost her only son at Neuve Chapelle, " Buckham was saying quietly. "In a way, it was as tho I had lost a boy. She never cared for the manshe married. He was a fine boy, sir. I--you may remember the night I wastaken ill in the pantry. "

"Is her husband still living?"

"No, Mr. Spencer. "

"Do you ever think of going back and finding her?"

"I have, sir. But I don't know. I like to remember her as she used tobe. I have some beautiful memories. And I think sometimes it is betterto live on memories. They are more real than--well, than reality, sir. "

Long after Buckham had withdrawn, Clayton paced the floor of thelibrary. Was Buckham right? Was the real life of a man his mental life?Was any love so great as a man's dream of love? Peace was on the way. Soon this nightmare of war would be over, and in the great awakeninglove would again take the place of hate. Love of man for man, of nationfor nation. Peace and the things of peace. Time to live. Time to hope, with the death-cloud gone. Time to work and time to play. Time to love awoman and cherish her for the rest of life, if only--

His failure with Natalie had lost him something. She had cost him hisbelief in himself. Her last words had crystallized his own sense offailure. 

"I admit all your good qualities, Clay. Heaven knows they are evidentenough. But you are the sort people admire. They don't love you. Theynever will. "

Yet that night he had had a curious sense that old Buckham loved him. Maybe he was the sort men loved and women admired. 

He sat down and leaned back in his chair, watching the fire-logs. Hefelt very tired. What was that Buckham had said about memories? ButBuckham was old. He was young, young and strong. There would be manyyears, and even his most poignant memories would grow dim. 

Audrey! Audrey!

From the wall over the mantel Natalie's portrait still surveyed the roomwith its delicate complacence. He looked up at it. Yes, Natalie had beenright, he was not the sort to make a woman happy. There were plenty ofmen, young men, men still plastic, men who had not known shipwreck, andsome such man Audrey would marry. Perhaps already, in France--

He got up. His desk was covered with papers, neatly endorsed by hissecretary. He turned out all the lights but his desk lamp. Natalie'sgleaming flesh-tones died into the shadows, and he stood for a moment, looking up at it, a dead thing, remote, flat, without significance. Thenhe sat down at his desk and took up a bundle of government papers. 

There was still work. Thank God for work. 

CHAPTER L

Audrey was in Paris on the eleventh of November. Now and then shegot back there, and reveled for a day or two in the mere joy of pavedstreets and great orderly buildings. She liked the streets and thecrowds. She liked watching the American boys swaggering along, smokinginnumerable cigarets and surveying the city with interested, patronizingeyes. And, always, walking briskly along the Rue Royale or the Avenue del'Opera, or in the garden of the Tuileries where the school-boys playedtheir odd French games, her eyes were searching the faces of the men shemet. 

Any tall man in civilian clothes set her heart beating faster. She wasquite honest with herself; she knew that she was watching for Clay, andshe had a magnificent shamelessness in her quest. And now at last TheDaily Mail had announced his arrival in France, and at first everyring of her telephone had sent her to it, somewhat breathless but quiteconfident. He would, she considered, call up the Red Cross at the HotelRegina, and they would, by her instructions, give her hotel. 

Then, on that Monday morning, which was the eleventh, she realized thathe would not call her up. She knew it suddenly and absolutely. She satdown, when the knowledge came to her, with a sickening feeling that ifhe did not come to her now he never would come. Yet even then she didnot doubt that he cared. Cared as desperately as she did. The bond stillheld. 

She tried very hard, sitting there by her wood fire in the orderlyuniform which made her so quaintly young and boyish, to understand thetwisted mental processes that kept him away from her, now that he wasfree. And, in the end, she came rather close to the truth: his senseof failure; his loss of confidence in himself where his love life wasconcerned; the strange twisting and warping that were Natalie's solelegacy from their years together. 

For months she had been tending broken bodies and broken spirits. Butthe broken pride of a man was a strange and terrible thing. 

She did not know where he was stopping, and in the congestion of theParis hotels it would be practically impossible to trace him. And there, too, her own pride stepped in. He must come to her. He knew she cared. She had been honest with him always, with a sort of terrible honesty. 

Surveying the past months she wondered, not for the first time, what hadheld them apart so long, against the urge that had become the strongestthing in life to them both. The strength in her had come from him. Sheknew that. But where had Clay got his strength? Men were not like that, often. Failing final happiness, they so often took what they could get. Like Chris. 

Perhaps, for the first and last time, she saw Clayton Spencer thatmorning with her mind, as well as with her heart. She saw him big andgenerous and fine, but she saw him also not quite so big as his love, conventional, bound by tradition and early training, somewhat rigid, Calvinistic, and dominated still by a fierce sex pride. 

At once the weaknesses of the middle span, and its safety. And, woman-fashion, she loved him for both his weakness and his strength. Abigger man might have taken her. A smaller man would have let hergo. Clay was--just Clay; single-hearted, intelligent but not shrewd, blundering, honest Clay. 

She was one great ache for the shelter of his arms. 

She had a small sense of shame that, on that day of all others, sheshould be obsessed with her own affairs. 

This was a great day. That morning, if all went well, the war was tocease. The curtain was to fall on the great melodrama, and those whohad watched it and those who had played in it would with the drop of thecurtain turn away from the illusion that is war, to the small and quietthings of home. 

"Home!" she repeated. She had no home. But it was a great day, nevertheless. Only that morning the white-capped femme de chambre hadsaid, with exaltation in her great eyes:

"So! It is finished, Madame, or soon it will be--in an hour or two. "

"It will be finished, Suzanne. "

"And Madame will go back to the life she lived before. " Her eyeshad turned to where, on the dressing-table, lay the gold fittings ofAudrey's dressing-case. She visualized Audrey, back in rich, opulentAmerica, surrounded by the luxury the gold trinkets would indicate. 

"Madame must be lovely in the costume for a ball, " she said, and sighed. For her, a farm in Brittany, the endless round of small duties; for theAmerican--

Sitting there alone Audrey felt already the reactions of peace. The warhad torn up such roots as had held her. She was terribly aware, too, that she had outgrown her old environment. The old days were gone. Theold Audrey was gone; and in her place was a quiet woman, whose hands hadknown service and would never again be content to be idle. Yet she knewthat, with the war, the world call would be gone. Not again, for her, detached, impersonal service. She was not of the great of the earth. What she wanted, quite simply, was the service of love. To have her ownand to care for them. She hoped, very earnestly, that she would be ableto look beyond her own four walls, to see distress and to help it, butshe knew, as she knew herself, that the real call to her would always belove. 

She felt a certain impatience at herself. This was to be the greatestday in the history of the world, and while all the earth waited for thesignal guns, she waited for a man who had apparently determined not totake her back into his life. 

She went out onto her small stone balcony, on the Rue Danou, and lookedout to where, on the Rue de la Paix, the city traffic moved with a sortof sporadic expectancy. Men stopped and consulted their watches. A fewstood along the curb, and talked in low voices. Groups of men in khakiwalked by, or stopped to glance into the shop windows. They, too, werewaiting. She could see, far below, her valet de chambre in his greenfelt apron, and the concierge in his blue frock coat and brass buttons, unbending in the new democracy of hope to talk to a cabman. 

Suddenly Audrey felt the same exaltation that had been in Suzanne'seyes. Those boys below in uniform--they were not tragic now. They werethe hope of the world, not its sacrifice. They were going to live. Theywere going to live. 

She went into her bedroom and put on her service hat. And as she openedthe door Suzanne was standing outside, one hand upraised. Into the quiethallway there came the distant sound of the signal guns. 

"C'est l'armistice!" cried Suzanne, and suddenly broke into wildhysterical sobbing. 

All the way down-stairs Audrey was praying, not articulately, but in herheart, that this was indeed the end; that the grapes of wrath had allbeen trampled; that the nations of the world might again look forwardinstead of back. And--because she was not of the great of the earth, butonly a loving woman--that somewhere Clay was hearing the guns, as shewas, and would find hope in them, and a future. 

When a great burden is lifted, the relief is not always felt at once. The galled places still ache. The sense of weight persists. And so withParis. Not at once did the city rejoice openly. It prayed first, andthen it counted the sore spots, and they were many. And it was dazed, too. There had been no time to discount peace in advance. 

The streets filled at once, but at first it was with a chastened people. Audrey herself felt numb and unreal. She moved mechanically with theshifting crowd, looking overhead as a captured German plane flew by, trying to comprehend the incomprehensible. But by mid-day the sober noteof the crowds had risen to a higher pitch. A file of American doughboys, led by a corporal with a tin trumpet and officered by a sergeant withan enormous American cigar, goose-stepped down the Avenue de l'Opera, gaining recruits at every step. It snake-danced madly through the crowd, singing that one lyric stand-by of Young America: "Hail! hail! thegang's all here!"

But the gang was not all there, and they knew it. Some of them lay inthe Argonne, or at Chateau-Thierry, and for them peace had come toolate. But the Americans, like the rest of the world, had put the pastbehind them. Here was the present, the glorious present, and Paris on asunny Monday. And after that would be home. 

 "Hail, hail, the gang's all here, What the hell do we care? What the hell do we care? Hail, hail, the gang's all here, What the hell do we care now?"

Gradually the noise became uproarious. There were no bands in Paris, andany school-boy with a tin horn or a toy drum could start a procession. Bearded little poilus, arm in arm from curb to curb, marched grinningdown the center of the streets, capturing and kissing pretty midinettes, or surrounding officers and dancing madly; Audrey saw an Algerian, ragged and dirty from the battle-fields, kiss on both cheeks a portlyBritish Admiral of the fleet, and was herself kissed by a French sailor, with extreme robustness and a slight tinge of vin ordinaire. She went onsmiling. 

If only Clay were seeing all this! He had worked so hard. He had a rightto this wonderful hour, at least. If he had gone to the front, to seeGraham--but then it must be rather wonderful at the front, too. Shetried to visualize it; the guns quiet, and the strained look gone fromthe faces of the men, with the wonderful feeling that as there wasto-day, now there would also be to-morrow. 

She felt a curious shrinking from the people she knew. For this one dayshe wanted to be alone. This peace was a thing of the soul, and of thesoul alone. She knew what it would be with the people she knew best inParis, --hastily arranged riotous parties, a great deal of champagneand noise, and, overlying the real sentiment, much sentimentality. Sherealized, with a faint smile, that the old Audrey would have welcomedthat very gayety. She was even rather resentful with herself for her ownaloofness. 

She quite forgot luncheon, and early afternoon found her on the balconyof the Crillon Hotel, overlooking the Place de la Concorde. Paris wastruly awake by that time, and going mad. The long-quiet fountains wereplaying, Poilus and American soldiers had seized captured German cannonand were hauling them wildly about. If in the morning the crowd had beenlargely khaki, now the French blue predominated. Flags and confetti wereeverywhere, and every motor, as it, pushed slowly through the crowd, carried on roof and running board and engine hood crowds of self-invitedpassengers. A British band was playing near the fountain. A line ofhelmets above the mass and wild cheers revealed French cavalry ridingthrough, and, heralded by jeers and much applause came a procession ofthe proletariat, of odds and ends, soldiers and shop-girls, mechanicsand street-sweepers and cabmen and students, carrying an effigy of theKaiser on a gibbet. 

As the sun went down, the outlines of the rejoicing city took on thefaint mist-blue of a dream city. It softened the outlines of the Eiffeltower to strange and fairy-like beauty and gave to the trees in theTuileries gardens the lack of definition of an old engraving. And asif to remind the rejoicing of the price of their happiness, there camelimping through the crowd a procession of the mutilees. They stumpedalong on wooden legs or on crutches; they rode in wheeled chairs; theywere led, who could not see. And they smiled and cheered. None of themwas whole, but every one was a full man, for all that. 

Audrey cried, shamelessly like Suzanne, but quietly. And, not for thefirst time that day, she thought of Chris. She had never loved him, butit was pitiful that he could not have lived. He had so loved life. Hewould have so relished all this, the pageantry of it, and the gayety, and the night's revelry that was to follow. Poor Chris! He had throwneverything away, even life. The world perhaps was better that thesemutilees below had given what they had. But Chris had gone like a pebblethrown into a lake. He had made his tiny ripple and had vanished. 

Then she remembered that she was not quite fair. Perhaps she had neverbeen fair to Chris. He had given all he had. He had not lived well, buthe had died well. And there was something to be said for death. For thefirst time in her healthy life she wondered about death, standing hereon the Crillon balcony, with the city gone mad with life below her. Death was quiet. It might be rather wonderful. She thought, if Clay didnot want her, that perhaps it would be very comforting just to die andforget about everything. 

From beneath the balcony there came again, lustily the shouts of a dozendoughboys hauling a German gun:

 "Hail! hail! the gang's all here! What the hell do we care? What the hell do we care? Hail, hail, the gang's all here! What the hell do we care now?"

Then, that night, Clay came. The roistering city outside had made of herlittle sitting-room a sort of sanctuary, into which came only faintlythe blasts of horns, hoarse strains of the "Marseillaise" sung byan un-vocal people, the shuffling of myriad feet, the occasionalsemi-hysterical screams of women. 

"Mr. Spencer is calling, " said the concierge over the telephone, in hisslow English. And suddenly a tight band snapped which had seemed to bindAudrey's head all day. She was calm. She was herself again. Life wasvery wonderful; peace was very wonderful. The dear old world. The goodold world. The kind, loving, tender old world, which separated peoplethat they might know the joy of coming together again. She wanted tosing, she wanted to hang over her balcony and teach the un-vocal Frenchthe "Marseillaise. "

Yet, when she had opened the door, she could not even speak. And Clay, too, after one long look at her, only held out his arms. It was rathera long time, indeed, before they found any words at all. Audrey was thefirst, and what she said astounded her. For she said:

"What a dreadful noise outside. "

And Clay responded, with equal gravity: "Yes, isn't it!"

Then he took off his overcoat and put it down, and placed his hat on thetable, and said, very simply: "I couldn't stay away. I tried to. "

"You hadn't a chance in the world, Clay, when I was willing you tocome. "

Then there was one of those silences which come when words have showntheir absolute absurdity. It seemed a long time before he broke it. 

"I'm not young, Audrey. And I have failed once. "

"It takes two to make a failure, " she said dauntlessly. "I--wouldn't letyou fail again, Clay. Not if you love me. "

"If I love you!" Then he was, somehow, in that grotesque position thatis only absurd to the on-looker, on his knees beside her. His terribleself-consciousness was gone. He only knew that, somehow, some way, hemust prove to her his humility, his love, his terrible fear of losingher again, his hope that together they might make up for the wastedyears of their lives. "I worship you, " he said. 

The little room was a sanctuary. The war lay behind them. Wasted andtroubled years lay behind them. Youth, first youth, was gone, with itsillusions and its dreams. But before them lay the years of fulfilment, years of understanding. Youth demanded everything, and was discontentedthat it secured less than its demands. Now they asked but three things, work, and peace, and love. And the greatest of these was love. 

Something like that he said to her, when the first inarticulateness hadpassed, and when, as is the way of a man with the woman who loves him, he tried to lay his soul as well as his heart at her feet. The knowledgethat the years brought. That love in youth was a plant of easy growth, springing up in many soils. But that the love of the middle span of aman's life, whether that love be the early love purified by fire, or anew love, sowed in sacrifice and watered with tears, the love that wasto carry a man and a woman through to the end, the last love, was God'sinfinitely precious gift. A gift to take the place of the things thathad gone with youth, of high adventure and the lilt of the singingheart. 

The last gift.