She had hardly listened.
“Then, if we get into it, as you say, you'll encourage Graham to go?”
“I shall allow him to go, if he feels it his duty.”
“Oh, duty, duty! I'm sick of the word.” She bent forward and suddenly caught one of his hands. “You won't make him go, Clay?” she begged. “You—you'll let him make his own decision?”
“If you will.”
“What do you mean?”
“If you'll keep your hands off, too. We're not in it, yet. God knows I hope we won't be. But if I promise not to influence him, you must do the same thing.”
“I haven't any more influence over Graham than that,” she said, and snapped her finger. But she did not look at him.
“Promise,” he said, steadily.
“Oh, all right.” Her voice and face were sulky. She looked much as Graham had that evening at the table.