too with her initials. He asked to be set down at a
suburban railway station, and was dismayed to find it crowded with early
commuters, who stared at the big car with interest. On the platform,
eyeing him with unfriendly eyes, was Nolan. Rodney made a movement
toward him. The situation was intolerable, absurd. But Nolan turned his
back and proceeded to read his newspaper.

Perhaps not in years had Rodney Page faced the truth about himself so
clearly as he did that morning, riding into the city on the train which
carried, somewhere ahead, that quietly contemptuous figure that was
Denis Nolan. Faced the truth, saw himself for what he was, and loathed
the thing he saw. For a little time, too, it was given him to see
Natalie for what she was, for what she would always be, her sole
contribution to life the web of her selfishness, carefully woven,
floating apparently aimlessly, and yet snaring and holding relentlessly
whatever it touched. Killing freedom. He saw Clayton and Graham and
himself, feeders for her monstrous complacency and vanity, and he made a
definite determination to free himself.

"I'm through," he reflected savagely. "I'll show them something, too.
I'll--"

He hesitated. How lovely she was! And she cared for him. She was small
and selfish and unspeakably vain, but she cared for him.

The war had done something for Rodney Page. He no longer dreamed the
old dream, of turning her ice to fire. But he dreamed, for a moment,
something finer. He saw Natalie his, and growing big and fine through
love. He saw himself and Natalie, like cards in the game of life,
re-dealt. A new combination; a winning hand--

CHAPTER XLVII

Very quietly Audrey had taken herself out of Clayton's life. She sent
him a little note of farewell:

"We have had ten very wonderful months, Clay," she wrote. "We ought to
be very happy. So few have as much. And we both know that this can't
go on. I am going abroad. I have an opportunity to go over and see what
Englishwomen are doing in the way of standing behind their men at war.
Then I am to tell our women at home. Not that they need it now, bless
them!

"I believe you will be glad to know that I am to be on the same side of
the ocean with Graham. I could get to him, I think, if anything should
go wrong. Will you send him the enclosed address?

"But, my dear, the address is for him, not for you. You must not write
to me. I have used up every particle of moral courage I possess, as