Athalie

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.