de his noon-hour
resolution. He would keep away from her. It might hurt her at first,
but she was young. She would forget. And he must not stand in her way.
Having done which, he returned to the Shoreham and spent an hour in a
telephone booth, calling hotels systematically and inquiring for her.

When he finally located her his voice over the wire startled her.

"Good heavens, Clay," she said. "Are you angry about anything?"

"Of course not. I just wanted to--I am leaving to-night and I'm saying
good-by. That's all."

"Oh!" She waited.

"Have you had a pleasant afternoon?"

"Aren't you going to see me before you go?"

"I don't think so."

"Don't you want to know what I am doing in Washington?"

"That's fairly clear, isn't it?"

"You are being rather cruel, Clay."

He hesitated. He was amazed at his own attitude. Then, "Will you dine
with me to-night?"

"I kept this evening for you."

But when he saw her, his sense of discomfort only increased. Their
dining together was natural enough. It was not even faintly clandestine.
But the new restraint he put on himself made him reserved and unhappy.
He could not act a part. And after a time Audrey left off acting, too,
and he found her watching him. On the surface he talked, but underneath
it he saw her unhappiness, and her understanding of his.

"I'm going back, too," she said. "I came down to see what I can do, but
there is nothing for the untrained woman. She's a cumberer of the earth.
I'll go home and knit. I daresay I ought to be able to learn to do that
well, anyhow."

"Have you forgiven me for this afternoon?"

"I wasn't angry. I understood."

That was it, in a nutshell. Audrey understood. She was that sort. She
never held small resentments. He rather thought she never felt them.

"Don't talk about me," she said. "Tell me about you and why you are
here. It's the war, of course."

So, rather reluctantly, he told her. He shrank from seeming to want her
approval, but at the same time he wanted it. His faith in himself had
been shaken. He needed it restored. And some of the exaltation which had
led him to make his proffer to the government came back when he saw how
she flushed over it.

"It's very big," she said, softly. "It's like you, Clay. And that's the
best thing I can say. I am very proud of you."

"I would rather have you proud of me than anything in the world," he
said, unsteadily.

They drifted, somehow, to talking of happiness. And alway