Dangerous Days

Now that she had seen Natalie, she knew why she had not seen her before.

She was jealous of her. Jealous and contemptuous. Suddenly she hated

Natalie. She hated her because she was Clayton Spencer's wife, with all

that that implied. She hated her because she was unworthy of him. She

hated her because she loved Clay, and hated her more because she loved

herself more than she loved him.

Audrey sat back in her chair and saw that she had traveled a long way

along a tragic road. For the first time in her brave and reckless life

she was frightened. She was even trembling. She lighted a cigaret from

the stand at Natalie's elbow to steady herself.

Natalie chattered on, and Audrey gave her the occasional nod that was

all she needed. She thought, "Does he know about her? Is he still fooled? She is almost beautiful.

Rodney is falling in love with her, probably. Does he know that? Will

he care terribly if he finds it out? She looks cold, but one can't tell,

and some men--has she a drop of honest, unselfish passion in her?"

She got up suddenly.

"Heavens, how late it is!" she said. "I must run on."

"Why not stay on to dinner? Graham is seldom home, and we can talk, if

Clay doesn't."

The temptation to see Clay again was strong in Audrey. But suddenly

she knew that she did not want to see them together, in the intimacy of

their home. She did not want to sit between them at dinner, and then go

away, leaving them there together. And something fundamentally honest in

her told her that she had no right to sit at their table.

"I'll come another time, if you'll ask me. Not to-day," she said. And

left rather precipitately. It hurt her, rather, to have Natalie, with an

impulsive gesture, gather the flowers out of a great jar and insist

on her carrying them home with her. It gave her a miserable sense of

playing unfairly.

She walked home. The fresh air, after Natalie's flower-scented,

overheated room, made her more rational. She knew where she stood,

anyhow. She was in love with Clayton Spencer. She had, she reflected

cynically, been in love before. A number of times before. She almost

laughed aloud. She had called those things love, those sickly romances,

those feeble emotions!

Then her eyes filled with unexpected tears. She had always wanted some

one to make her happy. Now she wanted to make some one happy. She cared

nothing for the cost. She would put herself out of it altogether. He

was not happy. Any one could see that. He had everything, but he was

not happy. If he belonged to her, she would live to make him happy. She

would-Suddenly she remembered Chris. Perhaps she did not know how to hold a

man's love. She had not held him. He had protested that she was the

only woman he had ever loved, but all the time there had been that other

girl. How account for her, then?