“Don't you see that?” he asked gently. “Not while he is working for the country, and Graham is abroad.”
“I don't see why war needs to deprive me of my friends. I've lost everything else.”
His morals were matters of his private life, and they had been neither better nor worse than the average. But he had breeding and a sure sense of the fitness of things, and this present week-end visit, with the ostentatious care the younger crowd took to allow him time to see Natalie alone, was galling to him. It put him in a false position; what hurt more, perhaps, in an unfavorable light. The war had changed standards, too. Men were being measured, especially by women, and those who failed to measure up were being eliminated with cruel swiftness, especially the men who stayed at home.
With all this, too, there was a growing admiration for Clayton Spencer in their small circle. His name had been mentioned in connection with an important position in Washington. In the clubs there was considerable praise and some envy. And Rodney knew that his affair with Natalie was the subject of much invidious comment.
“Do you love him?” he asked, suddenly.
“I—why, of course I do.”
“Do you mean that?”
“I don't see what that has to do with our friendship.”
“Oh—friendship! You know how I feel, and yet you go on, bringing up that silly word. If you love him, you don't—love me, and yet you've let me hang around all these months, knowing I am mad about you. You don't play the game, Natalie.”
“What do you want to say?”