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A man's house must be built on love. Without love it can not stand.
Natalie, coming in much later and seeing his light still on, found
him sleeping, with one arm under his head, and a small black hole
burned in the monogrammed linen sheet. The book of poems had slipped
to the floor.
The next day she missed it from its place, and Clayton's man,
interrogated, said he had asked to have it put away somewhere. He
did not care for it. Natalie raised her eyebrows. She had thought
the poems rather pretty.
One resolution Clayton made, as a result of that night. He would
not see Audrey again if he could help it. He was not in love with
her and he did not intend to be. He was determinedly honest with
himself. Men in his discontented state were only too apt to build
up a dream-woman, compounded of their own starved fancy, and
translate her into terms of the first attractive woman who happened
to cross the path. He was not going to be a driveling idiot, like
Chris and some of the other men he knew.


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