And then Rodney was announced.
The unreality of the situation persisted. Rodney's strained face and
uneasy manner, his uniform, the blank pause when he had learned that
Graham was better, and when the ordinary banalities of greeting
were over. Beside Clayton he looked small, dapper, and wretchedly
uncomfortable, and yet even Clayton had to acknowledge a sort of dignity
in the man.
He felt sorry for him, for the disillusion that was to come. And at the
same time he felt an angry contempt for him, that he should have forced
so theatrical a situation. That the night which saw Graham's beginning
recovery should be tarnished by the wild clutch after happiness of two
people who had done so little to earn it.
He saw another, totally different scene, for a moment. He saw Graham in
his narrow bed that night in some dimly-lighted hospital ward, and he
saw Audrey beside him, watching and waiting and praying. A wild desire
to be over there, one of that little group, almost overcame him. And
instead-"Natalie has not been well, Rodney," he said. "I rather think, if you
have 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 that
soft rustling which had been the accompaniment to so many of the most
poignant hours of his life. He listened until it had died away.