Dangerous Days

But, with the breaking off of diplomatic relations, matters remained

for a time at a standstill. Natalie dried her eyes and ordered some new

clothes, and saw rather more of Rodney Page than was good for her.

With the beginning of February the country house was far enough under

way for it to be promised for June, and Natalie, the fundamentals of its

decoration arranged for, began to haunt old-furniture shops, accompanied

always by Rodney.

"Not that your taste is not right, Natalie," he explained. "It is

exquisite. But these fellows are liars and cheats, some of them.

Besides, I like trailing along, if you don't mind."

Trailing along was a fairly accurate phrase. There was scarcely a day

now when Natalie's shining car, with its two men in livery, did not draw

up before Rodney's office building, or stand, as unostentatiously as a

fire engine, not too near the entrance of his club. Clayton, going

in, had seen it there once or twice, and had smiled rather grimly. He

considered its presence there in questionable taste, but he felt no

uneasiness. Determined as he was to give Natalie such happiness as was

still in him to give, he never mentioned these instances.

But a day came, early in February, which was to mark a change in the

relationship between Natalie and Rodney.

It started simply enough. They had lunched together at a down-town

hotel, and then went to look at rugs. Rodney had found her rather

obdurate as to old rugs. They were still arguing the matter in the

limousine.

"I just don't like to think of all sorts of dirty Turks and Arabs having

used them," she protested. "Slept on them, walked on them, spilled

things on the--? ugh!"

"But the colors, Natalie dear! The old faded 'copper-tones, the

dull-blues, the dead-rose! There is a beauty about age, you know. Lovely

as you are, you'll be even lovelier as an old woman."

"I'm getting there rather rapidly."

He turned and looked at her critically. No slightest aid that she had

given her beauty missed his eyes, the delicate artificial lights in her

hair, her eyebrows drawn to a hair's breadth and carefully arched, the

touch of rouge under her eyes and on the lobes of her ears. But she was

beautiful, no matter what art had augmented her real prettiness. She was

a charming, finished product, from her veil and hat to her narrowly

shod feet. He liked finished things, well done. He liked the glaze on a

porcelain; he liked the perfect lacquering on the Chinese screen he had

persuaded Natalie to buy; he preferred wood carved into the fine lines

of Sheraton to the trees that grow in the Park, for instance, through

which they were driving.