Natalie was in bed when he went up-stairs. Through the door of his
dressing-room he could see her lying, surrounded by papers. Natalie's
handsome bed was always covered with things, her handkerchief, a novel,
her silk dressing-gown flung over the footboard, sometimes bits of dress
materials and lace. Natalie did most of her planning in bed.
He went in and, clearing a space, sat down on the foot of the bed,
facing her. Her hair was arranged in a loose knot on top of her head,
and there was a tiny space, perhaps a quarter of an inch, slightly
darker than the rest. He realized with a little start that she had had
her hair touched up during his absence. Still, she looked very pretty,
her skin slightly glistening with its night's bath of cold cream, her
slim arms lying out on the blue silk eiderdown coverlet.
"I told Doctor Haverford to-night that we would like to give him a car,
Natalie," he began directly. It was typical of him, the "we."
"A car? What for?"
"To ride about in, my dear. It's rather a large parish, you know. And
I don't feel exactly comfortable seeing him tramping along when most
people are awheel. He's not very young."
"He'll kill himself, that's all."
"Well, that's rather up to Providence, of course."
"You are throwing a sop to Providence, aren't you?" she 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 you
were angry about something. Your face was awful."
"Oh, come now, Natalie," he protested. "It wasn't anything of the
sort. The dinner was all right. The guests were--all right. I may have
unconsciously resented your attitude about Doctor Haverford. Certainly
he didn't angle for it, and I had no idea of throwing a sop to
Providence."
"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 face
sets. Well?"
"I didn't feel unpleasant. It's rather my misfortune that my face--"
"Didn't you like my gown?"