were times when he and Natalie sat at the great table alone, with
only the candles for light and the rest of the room in a darkness
from which the butler emerged at stated intervals and retreated
again, when he felt the oppression of it. For a dinner party, with
the brilliant colors of the women's gowns, it was ideal. For
Natalie and himself alone, with the long silences between them that
seemed to grow longer as the years went on, it was inexpressibly
dreary.

He was frequently aware that both Natalie and himself were talking
for the butler's benefit.

From the room his eyes traveled to Graham, sitting alone,
uninterested, dull and somewhat flushed. And on Graham, too, he
fixed that clear appraising gaze that had vaguely disconcerted
Natalie. The boy had had too much to drink, and unlike the group
across the table, it had made him sullen and quiet. He sat there,
staring moodily at the cloth and turning his glass around in
fingers that trembled somewhat.

Then he found himself involved in the conversation.

"London as dark as they say?" inquired Christopher Valentine. He
was a thin young man, with a small, affectedly curled mustache.
Clayton did not care for him, but Natalie found him amusing. "I
haven't been over - " he really said 'ovah'- "for ages. Eight
months or so."

"Very dark. Hard to get about."