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A Sheraton sideboard was art. Even certain forms of Colonial
mahogany were art, although he was not fond of them. And Natalie
was - art. Even if she represented the creative instincts of her
dressmaker and her milliner, and not her own - he did not like a
Louis XV sofa the less that it had not carved itself.
Possibly Natalie appealed then to his collective instinct, he had
not analyzed it. He only knew that he liked being with her, and
he was not annoyed, certainly, by the fact that he knew their
constant proximity was arousing a certain amount of comment.
So:
"You are very beautiful," he said with his appraising glance full
on her. "You are quite the loveliest woman I know."
"Still? With a grown son?"
"I am not a boy myself, you know."
"What has that to do with it?"
He hesitated, then laughed a little.
"I don't know," he said. "I didn't mean to say that, exactly. Of
course, that fact is that I'm rather glad you are not a debutante.
You would be giving me odds and ends of dances if you were, you
know, and shifting me as fast as possible.


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