“Do I really talk of the war?”
“When you talk at all. What in the world do you think about, Clay, when you sit with your eyes on nothing? It's a vicious habit.”
“Oh, ships and sails and sealing wax and cabbages and kings,” he said, lightly.
That afternoon Natalie slept, and the house took on the tomb-like quiet of an establishment where the first word in service is silence. Clay wandered about, feeling an inexpressible loneliness of spirit. On those days which work did not fill he was always discontented. He thought of the club, but the vision of those disconsolate groups of homeless bachelors who gathered there on all festivals that centered about a family focus was unattractive.
All at once, he realized that, since he had wakened that morning, he had been wanting to see Audrey. He wanted to talk to her, real talk, not gossip. Not country houses. Not personalities. Not recrimination. Such talk as Audrey herself had always led at dinner parties: of men and affairs, of big issues, of the war.
He felt suddenly that he must talk about the war to some one.
Natalie was still sleeping when he went down-stairs. It had been raining, but a cold wind was covering the pavement with a glaze of ice. Here and there men in top hats, like himself, were making their way to Christmas calls. Children clinging to the arms of governesses, their feet in high arctics, slid laughing on the ice. A belated florist's wagon was still delivering Christmas plants tied with bright red bows. The street held more of festivity to Clayton than had his house. Even the shop windows, as he walked toward Audrey's unfashionable new neighborhood, cried out their message of peace. Peace—when there was no peace.
Audrey was alone, but her little room was crowded with gifts and flowers.
“I was hoping you would come, Clay,” she said. “I've had some visitors, but they're gone. I'll tell them down-stairs that I'm not at home, and we can really talk.”
“That's what I came for.”