d of the table, she looked again. His eyes
were fixed on her with a curious intentness. He seemed to be surveying
her, from the top of her burnished hair to the very gown she wore.
His gaze made her vaguely uncomfortable. It was unsmiling, appraising,
almost--only that was incredible in Clay--almost hostile.

Through the open door the half dozen women trailed out, Natalie in
white, softly rustling as she moved, Mrs. Haverford in black velvet,
a trifle tight over her ample figure, Marion Hayden, in a very brief
garment she would have called a frock, perennial debutante that she was,
rather negligible Mrs. Terry Mackenzie, and trailing behind the others,
frankly loath to leave the men, Audrey Valentine. Clayton Spencer's eyes
rested on Audrey with a smile of amused toleration, on her outrageously
low green gown, that was somehow casually elegant, on her long green
ear-rings and jade chain, on the cigaret between her slim fingers.

Audrey's audacity always amused him. In the doorway she turned and
nonchalantly surveyed the room.

"For heaven's sake, hurry!" she apostrophized the table. "We are going
to knit--I feel it. And don't give Chris anything more to drink, Clay.
He's had enough."

She went on, a slim green figure, moving slowly and reluctantly toward
the drawing-room, her head held high, a little smile still on her lips.
But, alone for a moment, away from curious eyes, her expression changed,
her smile faded, her lovely, irregular face took on a curious intensity.
What a devilish evening! Chris drinking too much, talking wildly, and
always with furtive eyes on her. Chris! Oh, well, that was life, she
supposed.

She stopped before a long mirror and gave a bit of careless attention to
her hair. With more care she tinted her lips again with a cosmetic stick
from the tiny, diamond-studded bag she carried. Then she turned and
surveyed the hall and the library beyond. A new portrait of Natalie was
there, hanging on the wall under a shaded light, and she wandered in,
still with her cigaret, and surveyed it. Natalie had everything. The
portrait showed it. It was beautiful, smug, complacent.

Mrs. Valentine's eyes narrowed slightly. She stood there, thinking about
Natalie. She had not everything, after all. There was something she
lacked. Charm, perhaps. She was a cold woman. But, then, Clay was cold,
too. He was even a bit hard. Men said that; hard and ambitious, although
he was popular. Men liked strong men. It was o