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Two tables of bridge were going, with Denis
Nolan sitting in at one. Money in large amounts was being written
in on the bridge scores. The air of the room was heavy with smoke,
and all the men and some of the women were drinking rather too much.
There were splotches of color under the tan in Graham's cheeks, and
even Natalie's laughter had taken on a higher note.
Chris's words rankled in Clayton Spencer's mind. A step from the
Saturday night carouse. How much better was this sort of thing?
A dull party, driven to cards and drink to get through the evening.
And what sort of home life were he and Natalie giving the boy?
Either this, or the dreary evenings when they were alone, with
Natalie sifting with folded hands, or withdrawing to her boudoir
upstairs, where invariably she summoned Graham to talk to him
behind closed doors.
He went into the library and shut the door. The room rested him,
after the babble across. He lighted a cigar, and stood for a
moment before Natalie's portrait.


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