Terry was striding about the room. His visits were always rather cyclonic. He moved from chair to chair, leaving about each one an encircling ring of cigaret ashes, and carefully inspecting each new vase of flowers. He stopped in front of a basket of exquisite small orchids.
“Who sent this?” he demanded.
“Rodney Page. Doesn't it look like him?”
He turned and stared at her.
“What's come over Clayton Spencer? Is he blind?”
“Blind?”
“About Rodney. He's head over heels in love with Natalie Spencer, God alone knows why.”
“I daresay it isn't serious. He is always in love with somebody.”
“There's a good bit of talk. I don't give a hang for either of them, but I'm fond of Clayton. So are you. Natalie's out in the country now, and Rodney is there every week-end. It's a scandal, that's all. As for Natalie herself, she ought to be interned as a dangerous pacifist. She's a martyr, in her own eyes. Thank heaven there aren't many like her.”
Audrey leaned back against her pillows.