“Made up my mind to what?”
“To sending Graham to be killed.”
“That's hardly worthy of you, Natalie,” he said gravely. “He is my son, too. I love him at least as much as you do. I don't think this is really up to us, anyhow. It is up to him. If he wants to go?”
She sat up, suddenly, her voice thin and high.
“How does he know what he wants?” she demanded. “He's too young. He doesn't know what war is; you say so yourself. You say he is too young to have a position worth while at the plant, but of course he's old enough to go to war and have a leg shot off, or to be blinded, or something.” Her voice broke.
He sat down on the bed and felt around until he found her hand. But she jerked it from him.
“You promised me once to let him make his own decision if the time came.”
“When did I promise that?”
“In the fall, when I came home from England.”
“I never made such a promise.”