"Fame at last, Audrey!" said old Terry, very gently.

"It's shameless!" But she was a little pleased, nevertheless. Not at the
publicity. That was familiar enough. But that, when her big moment came,
she had met it squarely.

Terry was striding about the room. His visits were always rather
cyclonic. He moved from chair to chair, leaving about each one an
encircling ring of cigaret ashes, and carefully inspecting each new vase
of flowers. He stopped in front of a basket of exquisite small orchids.

"Who sent this?" he demanded.

"Rodney Page. Doesn't it look like him?"

He turned and stared at her.

"What's come over Clayton Spencer? Is he blind?"

"Blind?"

"About Rodney. He's head over heels in love with Natalie Spencer, God
alone knows why."

"I daresay it isn't serious. He is always in love with somebody."

"There's a good bit of talk. I don't give a hang for either of them, but
I'm fond of Clayton. So are you. Natalie's out in the country now,
and Rodney is there every week-end. It's a scandal, that's all. As for
Natalie herself, she ought to be interned as a dangerous pacifist. She's
a martyr, in her own eyes. Thank heaven there aren't many like her."

Audrey leaned back against her pillows.

"I wonder, Terry," she said, "if you haven't shown me what to do next. I
might be able to reach some of the women like Natalie. There are some of
them, and they've got to learn that if they don't stand behind the men,
we're lost."