Out of those quiet hours, with Natalie at the theater or reading
up-stairs in bed, Clayton got the greatest comfort of his life. He would
neither look back nor peer anxiously ahead.

The past, with its tragedy, was gone. The future might hold even worse
things. But just now he would live each day as it came, working to the
utmost, and giving his evenings to his boy. The nights were the worst.
He was not sleeping well, and in those long hours of quiet he tried to
rebuild his life along stronger, sterner lines. Love could have no place
in it, but there was work left. He was strong and he was still young.
The country should have every ounce of energy in him. He would re-build
the plant, on bigger lines than before, and when that was done, he would
build again. The best he could do was not enough.

He scarcely noticed Natalie's withdrawal from Graham and himself. When
she was around he was his old punctilious self, gravely kind, more than
ever considerate. Beside his failure to her, her own failure to him
faded into insignificance. She was as she was, and through no fault of
hers. But he was what he had made himself.

Once or twice he had felt an overwhelming remorse toward her, and on one
such occasion he had made a useless effort to break down the barrier of
her long silence.