"I'm not happy, and I'm not
useful. I might as well play. It's all I can do."
But her real hunger was for news of Clayton. Quite suddenly he had
stopped dropping in on his way up-town. He had made himself the
most vital element in her life, and then taken himself out of it.
At first she had thought he might be ill. It seemed too cruel
otherwise. But she saw his name with increasing frequency in the
newspapers. It seemed to her that every relief organization in
the country was using his name and his services. So he was not ill.
He had tired of her, probably. She had nothing to give, had no
right to give anything. And, of course, he could not know how much
he had meant to her, of courage to carry on. How the memory of his
big, solid, dependable figure had helped her through the bad hours
when the thought of Chris's defection had left her crushed and
abject.
She told herself that the reason she wanted to see Natalie was
because she had neglected her shamefully. Perhaps that was what
was wrong with Clay; perhaps he felt that, by avoiding Natalie,
she was putting their friendship on a wrong basis.
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