She came down, the upturned wired points of the tunic trembling as
she stepped. When she came closer he saw that she was made up for the
costume ball also, her face frankly rouged, fine lines under her eyes,
her lashes blackened. She looked very lovely and quite unfamiliar. But
he had determined not to spoil her evening, and he continued gravely
smiling.
"You'd better like it, Clay," she said, and took a calculating advantage
of what she considered a softened mood. "It cost a thousand dollars."
She went on past him, toward the room where the florist was still
putting the finishing touches to the flowers on the table. When the
first guests arrived, she came back and took her place near him, and he
was uncomfortably aware of the little start of surprise with which she
burst upon each new arrival, In the old and rather staid surroundings of
the club she looked out of place--oriental, extravagant, absurd.
And Clayton Spencer suffered. To draw him as he stood in the club that
last year of our peace, 1916, is to draw him not only with his virtues
but with his faults; his over emphasis on small things; his jealousy for
his dignity; his hatred of the conspicuous and the unusual.
When, after the informal manner of clubs, the party went in to dinner,
he was having one of the bad hours of his life to that time. And when,
as was inevitable, the talk of the rather serious table turned to the
war, it seemed to him that Natalie, gorgeous and painted, represented
the very worst of the country he loved, indifference, extravagance, and
ostentatious display.
But Natalie was not America. Thank God, Natalie was not America.
Already with the men she was having a triumph. The women, soberly clad,
glanced at each other with raised eye-brows and cynical smiles. Above
the band, already playing in the ballroom, Clayton could hear old Terry
Mackenzie paying Natalie extravagant, flagrant compliments.
"You should be sitting in the sun, or on a balcony," he was saying, his
eyes twinkling. "And pretty gentlemen with long curls and their hats
tucked under their arms should be feeding you nightingale tongues, or
whatever it is you eat."
"Bugs," said Natalie.
"But--tell me," Terry bent toward her, and Mrs. Terry kept fascinated
eyes on him. "Tell me, lovely creature--aren't peacocks unlucky?"
"Are they? What bad luck can happen to me because I dress like this?"
"Frightfully bad luck," said Terry, jovially. "Some one will undoubtedly
carry you away, in the course of the evening, and go madly through the
world hunting a marble balustrade to set you on. I'll do it myself if
you'll give me any encouragement."