Her voice had been wistful, and it had been a moment before he had himself enough in hand to reply, formally:
“Thank you. I shall, very soon.”
But he had not gone to the little fiat again.
Through Natalie he heard of her now and then.
“I saw Audrey to-day,” she said once. “She is not wearing mourning. It's bad taste, I should say. When one remembers that she really drove Chris to his death—”
He had interrupted her, angrily.
“That is a cruel misstatement, Natalie. She did nothing of the sort.”
“You needn't bite me, you know. He went, and had about as much interest in this war as—as—”
“As you have,” he finished. And had gone out, leaving Natalie staring after him.
He was more careful after that, but the situation galled him. He was no hypocrite, but there was no need of wounding Natalie unnecessarily. And that, after all, was the crux of the whole situation. Natalie. It was not Natalie's fault that he had found the woman of his heart too late. He had no thought of blame for her. In decency, there was only one thing to do. He could not play the lover to her, but then he had not done that for a very long time. He could see, however, that she was not hurt.