herself in it. The rose-colored taffetas of her bedroom brought
out the delicacy of her skin. The hangings of her bed, small and draped,
reflected a faint color into her face, and the morning inspection with
a hand-mirror, which always followed her coffee, showed her at her best
instead of her worst.

Of her dressing-room she was not so sure. It's ivory-paneled walls,
behind whose sliding panels were hung her gowns, her silk and satin
chiffon negligees, her wraps and summer furs--all the vast paraphernalia
with which she armed herself, as a knight with armor--the walls seemed
cold. She hated old-blue, but old-blue Rodney had insisted upon.

He had held a bit of the taffeta to her cheek.

"It is delicious, Natalie," he said. "It makes your eyes as blue as the
sea."

"Always a decorator!" she had replied, smiling.

And, standing in her blue room, the first day of her arrival, and
frowning at her reflection, she remembered his reply.

"Because I have no right, with you, to be anything else." He had stopped
for a moment, and had absently folded and refolded the bit of blue silk.
Suddenly he said, "What do you think I am going to do, now that our work
together is done? Have you ever thought about that, Natalie?"

"You are coming often to enjoy your handiwork?"

He had made an impulsive gesture.

"I'm not coming. I've been seeing too much of you as it is. If you want
the truth, I'm just wretchedly unhappy, Natalie. You know I'm in love
with you, don't you?"

"I believe you think you are."

"Don't laugh." He almost snarled. "I may laugh at my idiocy, but you
haven't any right to. I know I'm ridiculous. I've known it for months.
But it's pretty serious for me."

He had meant it. There could be no doubt of that. It is the curious
quality of very selfish women that they inspire a certain sort of love.
They are likely to be loved often, even tho the devotion they inspire is
neither deep nor lasting. Big and single-hearted women are loved by one
man, and that forever.

Natalie had not laughed, but she had done what was almost as bad. She
had patted him on the arm.

"Don't talk like that," she said, gently. "You are all I have now,
Rodney, and I don't want to lose you. I'm suffering horribly these days.
You're my greatest comfort."

"I've heard you say that of a chair."

"As for loving me, you must not talk like that. Under the circumstances,
it's indelicate."

"Oh!" he had said, and looked at her quickly. "I c