aid. There was a faint regret in his
voice that Audrey had not presented him, and he did not see that her
coffee-cup trembled as she lifted it to her lips.

At ten o'clock the next morning Natalie called her on the 'phone.
Natalie's morning voice was always languid, but there was a trace of
pleading in it now.

"It's a lovely day," she said. "What are you doing?"

"I've been darning."

"You! Darning!"

"I rather like it."

"Heavens, how you've changed! I suppose you wouldn't do anything so
frivolous as to go out with me to the new house."

Audrey hesitated. Evidently Natalie wanted to talk, to try to justify
herself. But the feeling that she was the last woman in the world to be
Natalie's father-confessor was strong in her. On the other hand, there
was the question of Graham. On that, before long, she and Natalie would
have, in one of her own occasional lapses into slang, to go to the mat.

"I'll come, of course, if that's an invitation."

"I'll be around in an hour, then."

Natalie was unusually prompt. She was nervous and excited, and was even
more carefully dressed than usual. Over her dark blue velvet dress she
wore a loose motor-coat, with a great chinchilla collar, but above it
Audrey, who would have given a great deal to be able to hate her, found
her rather pathetic, a little droop to her mouth, dark circles which no
veil could hide under her eyes.

The car was in its customary resplendent condition. There were orchids
in the flower-holder, and the footman, light rug over his arm, stood
rigidly waiting at the door.

"What a tone you and your outfit do give my little street," Audrey said,
as they started. "We have more milk-wagons than limousines, you know."

"I don't see how you can bear it."

Audrey smiled. "It's really rather nice," she said. "For one thing, I
haven't any bills. I never lived on a cash basis before. It's a sort of
emancipation."

"Oh, bills!" said Natalie, and waved her hands despairingly. "If you
could see my desk! And the way I watch the mail so Clay won't see them
first. They really ought to send bills in blank envelopes."

"But you have to give them to him eventually, don't you?"

"I can choose my moment. And it is never in the morning. He's rather
awful in the morning."

"Awful?"

"Oh, not ugly. Just quiet. I hate a man who doesn't talk in the
mornings. But then, for months, he hasn't really talked at all. That's
why"--she was rather breathless--"that's why I went