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Natalie was
unusually pleasant. She spent some evening hours on the arm of his
big chair, talking endlessly about the Linndale house, and he would
lean back, smiling, and pretend to a mad interest in black and white
tiles and loggias.
He made no further protest as to the expense.
"Tell me," he said once, "what does a fellow wear in this - er
- Italian palace? If you have any intention of draping me in a toga
and putting vine leaves in my hair, or whatever those wreaths were
made of -!"
Natalie had no sense of humor, however. She saw that he meant to
be amusing, and she gave the little fleeting smile one gives to a
child who is being rather silly.
"Of course," he went on, "we'll have Roman baths, and be anointed
with oil afterwards by lady Greek slaves. Perfumed oil."
"Don't be vulgar, Clay." And he saw she was really offended.
While there was actually no change in their relationship, which
remained as it had been for a dozen years, their surface life was
pleasanter.


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