"Don't be vulgar, Clay." And he saw she was really offended.

While there was actually no change in their relationship, which remained
as it had been for a dozen years, their surface life was pleasanter.
And even that small improvement cheered him greatly. He was thankful for
such a peace, even when he knew that he had bought it at a heavy price.

The other was his work. The directorate for the new munition plant had
been selected, and on Thursday of that week he gave a dinner at his club
to the directors. It had been gratifying to him to find how easily
his past reputation carried the matter of the vast credits needed, how
absolutely his new board deferred to his judgment. The dinner became, in
a way, an ovation. He was vastly pleased and a little humbled. He wanted
terribly to make good, to justify their faith in him. They were the big
financial men of his time, and they were agreeing to back his judgment
to the fullest extent.

When the dinner was over, a few of the younger men were in no mood to
go home. They had dined and wined, and the night was young. Denis Nolan,
who had been present as the attorney for the new concern, leaned back in
his chair and listened to them with a sort of tolerant cynicism.

"Oh, go home, you fellows," he said at last. "You make me sick. Enough's
enough. Why the devil does every dinner like this have to end in a
debauch?"