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She sent her car to be used by those of her
friends who had none. She was lavish with flowers to the sick
- although Clayton paid her florist bills.
She was lavish with money - but never with herself.
In the weeks after the opening of the new year Clayton found himself
watching her. He wondered sometimes just what went on in her mind
during the hours when she sat, her hands folded, gazing into space.
He could not tell. He surmised her planning, always planning; the
new house, a gown, a hat, a party.
But late in January he began to think that she was planning something
else. Old Terry Mackenzie had been there one night, and he had
asserted not only that war was coming, but that we would be driven
to conscription to raise an army.
"They've all had to come to it," he insisted. "And we will, as sure
as God made little fishes. You can't raise a million volunteers for
a war that's three thousand miles away."
"You mean, conscription among the laboring class?" Natalie had asked
naively, and there had been a roar of laughter.


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