“Are you going to tell me about it?”
“Some of it. And if I don't start to yelling like a tom-cat.”
“You're not going to do that. Let me get you something.”
He was terrified by her eyes. “Some aromatic ammonia.” That was Natalie's cure for everything.
“I'm not going to faint. I never do. Close the door and sit down. And then—give me a hundred dollars, if you have it. Will you?”
“Is that enough?” he asked. And drew out his black silk evening wallet, with its monogram in seed pearls. He laid the money on her knee, for she made no move to take it. She sat back, her face colorless, and surveyed him intently.
“What a comfort you are, Clay,” she said. “Not a word in question. Just like that! Yet you know I don't borrow money, usually.”
“The only thing that is important is that I have the money with me. Are you sure it's enough?”
“Plenty. I'll send it back in a week or so. I'm selling this house. It's practically sold. I don't know why anybody wants it. It's a poky little place. But—well, it doesn't matter about the house. I called up some people to-day who have been wanting one in this neighborhood and I'm practically sure they'll take it.”
“But—you and Chris—”