Audrey's audacity always amused him. In the doorway she turned and
nonchalantly surveyed the room.

"For heaven's sake, hurry!" she apostrophized the table. "We are
going to knit - I feel it. And don't give Chris anything more to
drink, Clay. He's had enough."

She went on, a slim green figure, moving slowly and reluctantly
toward the drawing-room, her head held high, a little smile still
on her lips. But, alone for a moment, away from curious eyes, her
expression changed, her smile faded, her lovely, irregular face took
on a curious intensity. What a devilish evening! Chris drinking
too much, talking wildly, and always with furtive eyes on her.
Chris! Oh, well, that was life, she supposed.

She stopped before a long mirror and gave a bit of careless
attention to her hair. With more care she tinted her lips again
with a cosmetic stick from the tiny, diamond-studded bag she carried.
Then she turned and surveyed the hall and the library beyond. A new
portrait of Natalie was there, hanging on the wall under a shaded
light, and she wandered in, still with her cigaret, and surveyed it.
Natalie had everything. The portrait showed it. It was beautiful,
smug, complacent.

Mrs. Valentine's eyes narrowed slightly. She stood there, thinking
about Natalie. She had not everything, after all. There was
something she lacked. Charm, perhaps. She was a cold woman. But,
then, Clay was cold, too. He was even a bit hard. Men said that;
hard and ambitious, although he was popular. Men liked strong men.
It was only the weak they deplored and loved. Poor Chris!