And later, "I suppose every life has its Golden Age. Generally we think it is

youth. I'm not so sure. Youth is looking ahead. It has its hopes and its

disappointments. The Golden Age in a man's life ought to be the age of

fulfillment. 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 meant

fulfillment. The time came to every man when he must sit at the west

window of his house of life and look toward the sunset. If he faced that

sunset alone-He heard Madeleine carrying down Natalie's dinner-tray, and when she

left 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 scented

room. She had shut him out when she was in trouble. She had not cared

that he, too, was in distress. She had done her best to invalidate that

compact he had made. She had always invalidated him.

To go back to the old way, to the tribute she enforced to feed her

inordinate vanity, to the old hypocrisy of their relationship, to live

again the old lie, was impossible.

He got up. He would not try to buy himself happiness at the cost of

turning her adrift. But he must, some way, buy his self-respect.

He heard her then, on the staircase, that soft rustle which, it seemed

to him, had rasped the silk of his nerves all their years together with

its insistence on her dainty helplessness, her femininity, her right to

protection. The tap of her high heels came closer. He drew a long breath

and turned, determinedly smiling, to face the door.

Almost at once he saw that she was frightened. She had taken pains to

look 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 the

illusion 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 velvet

curtain, and looked at him with wide, penciled eyes.




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