She was frightened, and the terror in her face brought him to her quickly.
“Natalie! Don't look like that! I don't believe it, of course. It's stupid. I wasn't going to tell you. You don't think I believe it, do you?”
She let him put an arm around her and hold her, as he would a scared child. There was no love for her in it, but a great pity, and acute remorse that he could hold her so and care for her so little.
“Oh, Clay!” she gasped. “I've been perfectly sick about it!”
His conviction of his own failure to her made him very tender. He talked to her, as she stood with her face buried in the shoulder of his coat, of the absurdity of her fear, of his own understanding, and when she was calmer he made a futile effort to make his position clear.
“I am not angry,” he said. “And I'm not fudging you in any way. But you know how things are between us. We have been drifting apart for rather a long time. It's not your fault. Perhaps it is mine. Probably it is. I know I don't make you happy. And sometimes I think things have either got to be better or worse.”
“If I'm willing to go along as we are, I think you should be.”
“Then let's try to get a little happiness out of it all, Natalie.”
“Oh, happiness! You are always raving about happiness. There isn't any such thing.”
“Peace, then. Let's have peace, Natalie.”