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Graham, too, was getting on better. For one thing, Anna Klein had
been ill. She lay in her boarding-house, frightened at every step
on the stairs, and slowly recovered from a low fever. Graham had
not seen her, but he sent her money for a doctor, for medicines,
for her room rent, enclosed in brief letters, purely friendly and
interested. But she kept them under her pillow and devoured them
with feverish eyes.
But something had gone out of life for Graham. Not Anna. Natalie,
watching him closely, wondered what it was. He had been strange
and distant with her ever since that tall boy in kilts had been
there. He was studiously polite and attentive to her, rose when
she entered a room and remained standing until she was seated,
brought her the book she had forgotten, lighted her occasional
cigaret, kissed her morning and evening. But he no longer came
into her dressing-room for that hour before dinner when Natalie,
in dressing-gown and slippers, had closed the door to Clayton's
room and had kept him for herself.


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