But she knew about food. Her dinners were as casual as her house,
as to service, but they were worth eating. She claimed to pay for
them out of her bridge winnings, and, indeed, her invitation for
to-night had been frankness itself.

"I'm going to have a party, Clay," she had said. "I've made two
killings at bridge, and somebody has shipped Chris some ducks. If
you'll send me some cigarets like the last, I'll make it Tuesday."

He had sent the cigarets, and this was Tuesday.

The pleasant rolling of the car soothed him. The street flashed by,
brilliant with lights that in far perspective seemed to meet. The
shop windows gleamed with color. From curb to curb were other cars
like the one in which he rode, carrying home other men like himself
to whatever the evening held in store. He remembered London at this
hour, already dark and quiet, its few motors making their cautious
way in the dusk, its throngs of clerks, nearly all women now,
hurrying home to whatever dread the night might hold. And it made
him slightly more complacent. These things that he had taken for
granted before had since his return assumed the quality of luxury.

"Pray God we won't get into it," he said to himself.

He reviewed his unrest of the night before, and smiled at it.
Happiness. Happiness came from a sense of achievement. Integrity
and power, that was the combination. The respect of one's fellow
men, the day's work well done. Romance was done, at his age, but
there remained the adventure of success. A few years more, and he
would leave the mill to Graham and play awhile. After that - he