“Oh,” I admitted, reluctantly, for I felt that this would put a stop to any ambition that he had, “of course you are not ready for college. That would mean at least three years more!”
Martin mused,
“Seven and three—ten. I’m twenty-eight years old. That would bring it up to thirty-eight.”
“Yes,” I assented, “but you must remember that there are a good many working years left, after that!”
“I’m not thinking about myself; it’s Nora. We planned to get married by spring. Of course I should put it off. I wonder if you’d help me?”
“Help you—how—what?”
“Help me to explain to Nora; so she’ll wait—wait probably that long!”
“You can count on me to help you in anything, Martin.”
“When she knows it’s for her betterment, maybe she’ll be willing,” interjected Martin, as if in argument with himself.
I nodded, vigorously.