spital. Clayton knew Graham was waiting outside, but
he did not go out to speak to him. He was afraid of himself, afraid in
his anger that he would widen the breach between them.

Early in the evening Natalie had come, in a great evening-coat that
looked queerly out of place, but she had come, he knew, not through
sympathy for the thin little figure on the bed, but as he had known she
would come, to plead for Graham. And her cry of joy when the surgeons
had said the boy would live was again for Graham.

She had been too engrossed to comment on Audrey's presence there, and
Audrey had gone out immediately and left them together. Clayton was
forced, that night, to an unwilling comparison of Natalie with another
woman. On the surface of their lives, where only they met, Natalie had
always borne comparison well. But here was a new standard to measure by,
and another woman, a woman with hands to serve and watchful, intelligent
eyes, outmeasured her.

Not that Clayton knew all this. He felt, in a vague way, that Natalie
was out of place there, and he felt, even more strongly, that she had
not the faintest interest in the still figure on its white bed--save as
it touched Graham and herself.

He was resentful, too, that she felt it necessary to plead with him
for his own boy. Good God, if she felt that way about him, no wonder
Graham--

She had placed a hand on Clayton's arm, as he sat in that endless vigil,
and bent down to whisper, although no sound would have penetrated that
death-like stupor.

"It was an accident, Clay," she pled. "You know Graham's the kindest
soul in the world. You know that, Clay."

"He had been drinking." His voice sounded cold and strained to his own
ears.

"Not much. Almost nothing, Toots says positively."

"Then I'd rather he had been, Natalie. If he drove that ball out of
wanton indifference--"

"He didn't see the boy."

"He should have looked."

In her anger she ceased her sibilant whispering, and stood erect.

"I told him you'd be hard," she said. "He's outside, half-sick with
fright, because he is afraid. Afraid of you," she added, and went out,
her silks rustling in the quiet corridor.

She had gone away soon after that, the nurse informed him. And toward
dawn Clayton left Audrey in the sick room and found Graham. He was
asleep in a chair in the waiting-room, and looked boyish and very tired.
Clayton's heart contracted.

He went back to his vigil, and let Graham sleep on.

S