He had never known that clouds, unless charged with thunder, were noisy. But he heard a black and ominous cloud gather itself and roll off his brain. Had that, after all, been . . . Nevertheless, he was annoyed to feel that he was smiling boyishly and that he probably looked as saturnine as he felt. "Whatever your little comedy, it is quite within your rights to play it in your own way." "It is not a comedy," she said grimly. "Oh! Not tragedy?" he cried in alarm. "No--not yet. Not yet! . . . I am beginning to wish that I had never come to America." "Now I shall ask you why." "And I shall not tell you. I have read your Miss Dwight's novel, by the way, and think it quite hideous." "So do I. But that is the reason of its success." And the conversation meandered along the safe bypaths of American fiction through the ices and coffee. XIX They sat beside the fire in chairs that had never felt softer. He smoked a cigar, she cigarettes in a long topaz holder ornamented with a tiny crown in diamonds and the letter Z. She had given it to him to examine when he exclaimed at its beauty. Z! But he banished both curiosity and possible confirmation. He was replete and comfortable, and almost happy. The occasional silences were now merely agreeable. She lay back in her deep chair as relaxed as himself, but although she said little her aloofness had mysteriously departed. She looked companionable and serene. Only one narrow foot in its silvery slipper moved occasionally, and her white and beautiful hands, whose suggestion of ruthless power Clavering had appreciated apprehensively from the first, seemed, although they were quiet, subtly to lack the repose of her body.