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He was a trifle acid, was Nolan. He needed mellowing, a
woman in his life. But Nolan had loved once, and the girl had died.
With the curious constancy of the Irish, he had remained determinedly
celibate.
"Strange race," Clayton reflected idly, as Nolan's voice sang on.
"Don't know what they want, but want it like the devil. One-woman
men, too. Curious!"
It occurred to him then that his own reflection was as odd as the
fidelity of the Irish. He had been faithful to his wife. He had
never thought of being anything else.
He did not pursue that line of thought. He sat back and resumed
his nervous tapping of the cloth, not listening, hardly thinking,
but conscious of a discontent that was beyond analysis.
Clayton had been aware, since his return from the continent and
England days before, of a change in himself. He had not recognized
it until he reached home. And he was angry with himself for feeling
it. He had gone abroad for certain Italian contracts and had
obtained them.


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