ght."

He went across to his own bedroom, where his silk pajamas, neatly
folded, lay on his painted Louis XVI bed. Under his reading lamp there
was a book. It was a part of Natalie's decorative scheme for the room;
it's binding was mauve, to match the hangings. For the first time since
the room had been done over during his absence he picked up the book.

"Rodney's idea, for a cent!" he reflected, looking rather grimly at the
cover.

He undressed slowly, his mind full of Graham and the problem he
presented. Then he thought of Natalie, and of the little things that
made up her life and filled her days. He glanced about the room,
beautiful, formal, exquisitely appointed. His father's portrait was gone
from over the mantel, and an old French water-color hung there instead.
That was too bad of Natalie. Or had it been Rodney? He would bring it
back. And he gave a fleeting thought to Graham and his request to go
abroad. He had not meant it. It was sheer reaction. But he would talk to
Graham.

He lighted a cigaret, and getting into bed turned on his reading lamp.
Queer how a man could build, and then find that after all he did not
care for the achievement. It was the building alone that was worth
while.

He picked up the book from the table, and opened it casually.

"When first I loved I gave my very soul
Utterly unreserved to Love's control,
But Love deceived me, wrenched my youth away,
And made the gold of life forever gray.
Long I lived lonely, yet I tried in vain
With any other joy to stifle pain;
There is no other joy, I learned to know,
And so returned to love, as long ago,
Yet I, this little while ere I go hence,
Love very lightly now, in self defense."

"Twaddle," said Clayton Spencer, and put the book away. That was the
sort of stuff men like Rodney lived on. In a mauve binding, too.

After he had put out the light he lay for a long time, staring into the
darkness. It was not love he wanted: he was through with all that.
Power was the thing, integrity and power. To yield to no man, to achieve
independence for one's soul--not that he put it that way. He formulated
it, drowsily: 'Not to give a damn for any one, so long as you're right.'
Of course, it was not always possible to know if one was right. He
yawned. His conscious mind was drowsing, and from the depths below,
released of the sentry of his waking hours, came the call of his starved
imagination.

CHAPTE