“Graham!” he called.
Graham stopped, and came back slowly.
“Yes, father,” he said, from the doorway.
“Aren't you coming in?”
“I thought I'd go out for a hit of a spin, if you don't mind. Evening, Mr. Nolan.”
The boy was shaken. Clayton knew it from his tone. All the fine vigor of the early evening was gone. And an overwhelming rage filled him, against Natalie, against himself, even against the boy. Trouble, which should have united his house, had divided it. The first threat of trouble, indeed.
“You can go out later,” he said rather sharply. “We ought to talk things over, Graham. This is a mighty serious time.”
“What's the use of talking things over, father? We don't know anything but that we may declare war.”
“That's enough, isn't it?”
But he was startled when he saw Graham's face. He was very pale and his eyes already looked furtive. They were terribly like Natalie's eyes sometimes. The frankness was gone out of them. He came into the room, and stood there, rigid.