There was no awkwardness in Graham's “Morning, dad.” He had not forgotten the night before, but he had already forgiven himself. He ignored the newspaper at his plate, and dug into his grapefruit.
“Anything new?” he inquired casually.
“You might look and see,” Clayton suggested, good-naturedly.
“I'll read going down in the car. Can't stand war news on an empty stomach. Mother all right this morning?”
“I think she is still sleeping.”
“Well, I should say she needs it, after last night. How in the world we manage, with all the interesting people in the world, to get together such a dreary lot as that—Lord, it was awful.”
Clayton rose and folded his paper.
“The car's waiting,” he said. “I'll be ready in five minutes.”
He went slowly up the stairs. In her pink bedroom Natalie had just wakened. Madeleine, her elderly French maid, had brought her breakfast, and she was lying back among the pillows, the litter of the early mail about her and a morning paper on her knee. He bent over and kissed her, perfunctorily, and he was quick to see that her resentment of the evening before had survived the night.
“Sleep well?” he inquired, looking down at her. She evaded his eyes.