For the first time since dinner began Natalie Spencer had a clear view
of her husband's face. Not that that had mattered particularly, but the
flowers had been too high. For a small dinner, low flowers, always. She
would speak to the florist. But, having glanced at Clayton, standing
tall and handsome at the head of the table, she looked again. His eyes
were fixed on her with a curious intentness. He seemed to be surveying
her, from the top of her burnished hair to the very gown she wore.
His gaze made her vaguely uncomfortable. It was unsmiling, appraising,
almost--only that was incredible in Clay--almost hostile.

Through the open door the half dozen women trailed out, Natalie in
white, softly rustling as she moved, Mrs. Haverford in black velvet,
a trifle tight over her ample figure, Marion Hayden, in a very brief
garment she would have called a frock, perennial debutante that she was,
rather negligible Mrs. Terry Mackenzie, and trailing behind the others,
frankly loath to leave the men, Audrey Valentine. Clayton Spencer's eyes
rested on Audrey with a smile of amused toleration, on her outrageously
low green gown, that was somehow casually elegant, on her long green
ear-rings and jade chain, on the cigaret between her slim fingers.

Audrey's audacity always amused him. In the doorway she turned and
nonchalantly surveyed the room.

"For heaven's sake, hurry!" she apostrophized the table. "We are going
to knit--I feel it. And don't give Chris anything more to drink, Clay.
He's had enough."