And when, as was inevitable, the talk of the rather serious table
turned to the war, it seemed to him that Natalie, gorgeous and
painted, represented the very worst of the country he loved,
indifference, extravagance, and ostentatious display.
But Natalie was not America. Thank God, Natalie was not America.
Already with the men she was having a triumph. The women, soberly
clad, glanced at each other with raised eye-brows and cynical smiles.
Above the band, already playing in the ballroom, Clayton could hear
old Terry Mackenzie paying Natalie extravagant, flagrant compliments.
"You should be sitting in the sun, or on a balcony," he was saying,
his eyes twinkling. "And pretty gentlemen with long curls and their
hats tucked under their arms should be feeding you nightingale
tongues, or whatever it is you eat."
"Bugs," said Natalie.
"But - tell me," Terry bent toward her, and Mrs. Terry kept
fascinated eyes on him. "Tell me, lovely creature - aren't peacocks
unlucky?"
"Are they? What bad luck can happen to me because I dress like this?"
"Frightfully bad luck," said Terry, jovially.
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