Two things helped greatly to restore Clayton to a more normal state of
mind during the next few days. One of them undoubtedly was the Valentine
situation. Beside Audrey's predicament and Chris's wretched endeavor to
get away and yet prove himself a man, his own position seemed, if not
comfortable, at least tenable. He would have described it, had he been
a man to put such a thing into words, as that "he and Natalie didn't
exactly hit it off."
There were times, too, during those next few days, when he wondered
if he had not exaggerated their incompatibility. Natalie was unusually
pleasant. 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 and
loggias.
He made no further protest as to the expense.
"Tell me," he said once, "what does a fellow wear in this--er--Italian
palace? If you have any intention of draping me in a toga and putting
vine leaves in my hair, or whatever those wreaths were made of--!"
Natalie had no sense of humor, however. She saw that he meant to be
amusing, and she gave the little fleeting smile one gives to a child who
is being rather silly.
"Of course," he went on, "we'll have Roman baths, and be anointed with
oil 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 remained
as it had been for a dozen years, their surface life was pleasanter.
And even that small improvement cheered him greatly. He was thankful for
such 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 had
been selected, and on Thursday of that week he gave a dinner at his club
to the directors. It had been gratifying to him to find how easily
his past reputation carried the matter of the vast credits needed, how
absolutely his new board deferred to his judgment. The dinner became, in
a way, an ovation. He was vastly pleased and a little humbled. He wanted
terribly to make good, to justify their faith in him. They were the big
financial men of his time, and they were agreeing to back his judgment
to the fullest extent.
When the dinner was over, a few of the younger men were in no mood to
go 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 in
his chair and listened to them with a sort of tolerant cynicism.