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Clayton, standing glass in hand, surveyed the scene with a mixture
of satisfaction and impatience. He found Terry Mackenzie at his
elbow.
"Great party, Clay," he said. "Well, here's to 1917, and may it
bring luck."
"May it bring peace," said Clayton, and raised his glass.
Some time later going home in the car with Mrs. Mackenzie, quiet
and slightly grim beside him, Terry spoke out of a thoughtful
silence.
"There's something wrong with Clay," he said. "If ever a fellow
had a right to be happy - he has a queer look. Have you noticed it?"
"Anybody married to Natalie Spencer would develop what you call a
queer look," she replied, tartly.
"Don't you think he is in love with her?"
"If you ask me, I think he has reached the point where he can't bear
the sight of her. But he doesn't know it."
"She's pretty."
"So is a lamp-shade," replied Mrs. Terry, acidly. "Or a kitten, or
a fancy ice-cream. But you wouldn't care to be married to them,
would you?"
It was almost dawn when Natalie came in.


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