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"Think that over, Graham," he said gravely. "I don't believe you
quite mean it. Good-night."
He went across to his own bedroom, where his silk pajamas, neatly
folded, lay on his painted Louis XVI bed. Under his reading lamp
there was a book. It was a part of Natalie's decorative scheme for
the room; it's binding was mauve, to match the hangings. For the
first time since the room had been done over during his absence he
picked up the book.
"Rodney's idea, for a cent!" he reflected, looking rather grimly at
the cover.
He undressed slowly, his mind full of Graham and the problem he
presented. Then he thought of Natalie, and of the little things
that made up her life and filled her days. He glanced about the
room, beautiful, formal, exquisitely appointed. His father's
portrait was gone from over the mantel, and an old French
water-color hung there instead. That was too bad of Natalie. Or
had it been Rodney? He would bring it back. And he gave a fleeting
thought to Graham and his request to go abroad.


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