"There are three cars here now; I should think he could manage."
"Every boy wants his own car."
"I pay my other managers three thousand," he had said, still patient.
"He will live here. His car can be kept here, without expense.
Personally, I think it too much money for the service he will be able to
give for the first year or two."
And, although she had let it go at that, he had felt in her a keen
resentment. Graham had got a car of his own, was using it hard, if
the bills the chauffeur presented were an indication, and Natalie had
overdrawn her account two thousand five hundred dollars.
The evening wore on. Two tables of bridge were going, with Denis Nolan
sitting in at one. Money in large amounts was being written in on the
bridge scores. The air of the room was heavy with smoke, and all the
men and some of the women were drinking rather too much. There were
splotches of color under the tan in Graham's cheeks, and even Natalie's
laughter had taken on a higher note.
Chris's words rankled in Clayton Spencer's mind. A step from the
Saturday night carouse. How much better was this sort of thing? A dull
party, driven to cards and drink to get through the evening. And what
sort of home life were he and Natalie giving the boy? Either this, or
the dreary evenings when they were alone, with Natalie sifting with
folded hands, or withdrawing to her boudoir upstairs, where invariably
she summoned Graham to talk to him behind closed doors.
He went into the library and shut the door. The room rested him, after
the babble across. He lighted a cigar, and stood for a moment before
Natalie's portrait. It had been painted while he was abroad at, he
suspected, Rodney's instigation. It left him quite cold, as did Natalie
herself.
He could look at it dispassionately, as he had never quite cared to
regard Natalie. Between them, personally, there was always the element
she never allowed him to forget, that she had given him a son. This
was Natalie herself, Natalie at forty-one, girlish, beautiful, fretful
and--selfish. Natalie with whom he was to live the rest of his life, who
was to share his wealth and his future, and with whom he shared not a
single thought in common.
He had a curious sense of disloyalty as he sat down at his desk and
picked up a pad and pencil. But a moment later he had forgotten her, as
he had forgotten the party across the hall. He had work to do. Thank God
for work.