His mother, irritated and secretly dismayed, maintained, however, her
placid mask and her attitude of toleration.
She said: "I distinguish between a woman to the manner born, and a
woman who is not. The difference is as subtle as intuition and as wide
as the ocean. And, dear, no young man, however clever, is clever
enough to instruct his mother concerning such matters."
"I was asking you to instruct me," he said.
"Very well. If you wish to know the difference between the imitation
and the real, compare that young woman with Winifred Stuart."
Clive's gaze shifted from his mother and became fixed on space.
After a moment his pretty mother moved toward the dressing-room: "If
you will find a chair and light a cigarette, Clive, we can continue
talking."
His absent eyes reverted to her: "I think I'll go, mother. Good
night."
"Good night, dear."
He went to his own room. From the room adjoining came his father's
heavy breathing where he lay asleep.
The young fellow listened for a moment, then walked into the library
where only a dim night-light was burning. He still wore his overcoat
over his evening clothes, and carried his hat and stick.
For a while he stood in the dim library, head bent, staring at the rug
under foot.
Then he turned, went out and down the stairs, and opened the door of
the butler's pantry. The service telephone was there. He unhooked the
receiver and called. Almost immediately he got his "party."
"Yes?" came the distant voice distinctly.
"Is it you, Athalie?"
"Yes.... Oh, Clive!"
"Didn't you recognise my voice?"
"Not immediately."
"When did you come in?"
"Just this moment. I still have on my evening wrap."
"Did you have an agreeable evening?"
"Yes."
"Are you tired?"
"No."
"May I come around and see you for a few minutes?"
"Yes."
"All right," he said briefly.