And so returned to love, as long ago,
Yet I, this little while ere I go hence,
Love very lightly now, in self defense."

"Twaddle," said Clayton Spencer, and put the book away. That was
the sort of stuff men like Rodney lived on. In a mauve binding, too.

After he had put out the light he lay for a long time, staring into
the darkness. It was not love he wanted: he was through with all
that. Power was the thing, integrity and power. To yield to no
man, to achieve independence for one's soul - not that he put it
that way. He formulated it, drowsily: 'Not to give a damn for any
one, so long as you're right.' Of course, it was not always possible
to know if one was right. He yawned. His conscious mind was
drowsing, and from the depths below, released of the sentry of his
waking hours, came the call of his starved imagination.




CHAPTER III

There was no moral to be adduced from Graham's waking the next
morning. He roused, reluctantly enough, but blithe and hungry. He
sang as he splashed in his shower, chose his tie whistling, and went
down the staircase two steps at a time to a ravenous breakfast.

Clayton was already at the table in the breakfast room, sitting back
with the newspaper, his coffee at his elbow, the first cigarette of
the morning half smoked. He looked rather older in the morning light.