She assumed the
child-like smile which so often preserved her from the disagreeable.
"What a sleep I've had," she said, and yawned prettily. "I'll have
one of your cigarets, darling, and then let's take a walk."
Graham knew Natalie's idea of a walk, which was three or four blocks
along one of the fashionable avenues, with the car within hailing
distance. At the end of the fourth block she always declared that
her shoes pinched, and called the machine.
"You don't really want to walk, mother."
"Of course I do, with you. Ring for Madeleine, dear."
She was uncomfortable. Graham had been very queer lately. He
would have long, quiet spells, and then break out in an
uncontrollable irritation, generally at the servants. But Graham
did not ring for Madeleine. He lighted a cigaret for Natalie, and
standing off, surveyed her. She was very pretty. She was prettier
than Toots. That pale blue wrapper, or whatever it was, made her
rather exquisite. And Natalie, curled up on her pale rose chaise
longue, set to work as deliberately to make a conquest of her son
as she had ever done to conquer Rodney Page, or the long list of
Rodney's predecessors.
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