She was with a man in uniform, a young man, gay and smiling. He was
paying her evident court, in a debonair fashion, bending toward her
across the table. Suddenly Clayton was jealous, fiercely jealous.
The jealousy of the young is sad enough, but it is an ephemeral thing.
Life calls from many directions. There is always the future, and the
things of the future. And behind it there is the buoyancy and easy
forgetfulness of youth. But the jealousy of later years knows no such
relief. It sees time flying and happiness evading it. It has not
the easy self-confidence of the twenties. It has learned, too, that
happiness is a rare elusive thing, to be held and nursed and clung to,
and that even love must be won and held.
It has learned that love must be free, but its instinct is to hold it
with chains.
He suffered acutely, and was ashamed of his suffering. After all,
Audrey was still young. Life had not been kind to her, and she should be
allowed to have such happiness as she could. He could offer her nothing.
He would give her up. He had already given her up. She knew it.
Then she saw him, and his determination died under the light that
came in her eyes. Give her up! How could he give her up, when she was
everything he had in the world? With a shock, he recognized in the
thought Natalie's constant repetition as to Graham. So he had come to
that!
He felt Audrey's eyes on him, but he did not go to her. He signed his
check, and went out. He fully meant to go away without seeing her. But
outside he hesitated. That would hurt her, and it was cowardly. When, a
few moments later, she came out, followed by the officer, it was to find
him there, obviously waiting.
"I wondered if you would dare to run away!" she said. "This is Captain
Sloane, Clay, and he knows a lot about you."
Close inspection showed Sloane handsome, bronzed, and with a soft
Southern voice, somewhat like Audrey's. And it developed that he
came from her home, and was on his way to one of the early camps. He
obviously intended to hold on to Audrey, and Clayton left them there
with the feeling that Audrey's eyes were following him, wistful and full
of trouble. He had not even asked her where she was stopping.
He took a long walk that afternoon, and re-made his noon-hour
resolution. He would keep away from her. It might hurt her at first,
but she was young. She would forget. And he must not stand in her way.
Having done which, he returned to the Shoreham and spent an hour in a
telephone booth, calling hotels systematically and inquiring for her.