“There's something wrong with Clay,” he said. “If ever a fellow had a right to be happy—he has a queer look. Have you noticed it?”
“Anybody married to Natalie Spencer would develop what you call a queer look,” she replied, tartly.
“Don't you think he is in love with her?”
“If you ask me, I think he has reached the point where he can't bear the sight of her. But he doesn't know it.”
“She's pretty.”
“So is a lamp-shade,” replied Mrs. Terry, acidly. “Or a kitten, or a fancy ice-cream. But you wouldn't care to be married to them, would you?”
It was almost dawn when Natalie came in. Clayton had not been asleep. He had got to thinking rather feverishly of the New-year. Without in any way making a resolution, he had determined to make it a better year than the last; to be more gentle with Natalie, more understanding with Graham; to use his new prosperity wisely; to forget his own lack of happiness in making others happy. He was very vague about that. The search of the ages the rector had called happiness, and one found it by giving it.
To his surprise, Natalie came into his bedroom, looking like some queer oriental bird, vivid and strangely unlike herself.
“I saw your light. Heavens, what a party!”
“I'm glad you enjoyed it. I hope you didn't mind my not going on.”