moment before Natalie's portrait. It had been painted while he
was abroad at, he suspected, Rodney's instigation. It left him
quite cold, as did Natalie herself.

He could look at it dispassionately, as he had never quite cared
to regard Natalie. Between them, personally, there was always the
element she never allowed him to forget, that she had given him a
son. This was Natalie herself, Natalie at forty-one, girlish,
beautiful, fretful and - selfish. Natalie with whom he was to live
the rest of his life, who was to share his wealth and his future,
and with whom he shared not a single thought in common.

He had a curious sense of disloyalty as he sat down at his desk and
picked up a pad and pencil. But a moment later he had forgotten
her, as he had forgotten the party across the hall. He had work to
do. Thank God for work.




CHAPTER II

Natalie was in bed when he went up-stairs. Through the door of his
dressing-room he could see her lying, surrounded by papers.
Natalie's handsome bed was always covered with things, her
handkerchief, a novel, her silk dressing-gown flung over the
footboard, sometimes bits of dress materials and lace. Natalie did
most of her planning in bed.

He went in and, clearing a space, sat down on the foot of the bed,