One morning, in his mail, Clayton Spencer received a clipping. It had
been cut from a so-called society journal, and it was clamped to the
prospectus of a firm of private detectives who gave information for
divorce cases as their specialty.

First curiously, then with mounting anger, Clayton read that the wife
of a prominent munition manufacturer was being seen constantly in out
of the way places with the young architect who was building a palace for
her out of the profiteer's new wealth. "It is quite probable," ended the
notice, "that the episode will end in an explosion louder than the best
shell the husband in the case ever turned out."

Clayton did not believe the thing for a moment. He was infuriated,
but mostly with the journal, and with the insulting inference of the
prospectus. He had a momentary clear vision, however, of Natalie, of
her idle days, of perhaps a futile last clutch at youth. He had no more
doubt of her essential integrity than of his own. But he had a very
distinct feeling that she had exposed his name to cheap scandal, and
that for nothing.

Had there been anything real behind it, he might have understood, in
his new humility, in his new knowledge of impulses stronger than
any restraints of society, he would quite certainly have made every
allowance. But for a whim, an indulgence of her incorrigible vanity! To
get along, to save Natalie herself, he was stifling the best that was in
him, while Natalie-That was one view of it. The other was that Natalie was as starved as
he was. If he got nothing from her, he gave her nothing. How was he to
blame her? She was straying along dangerous paths, but he himself had
stood at the edge of the precipice, and looked down.