“She isn't taking it very hard, is she?” Then his voice changed. “I wish you'd talk to her, father. She's—well, she's got me! You see, I promised her not to go in without her consent.”
“When did you do that?”
“The night we broke with Germany in February. I was a fool, but she was crying, and I didn't know what else to do. And”—there was a ring of desperation in his voice—“she's holding me to it. I've been to her over and over again.”
“And you want to go?”
“Want to go! I've got to go.”
He broke out then into a wild appeal. He wanted to get away. He was making a mess of all sorts of things. He wasn't any good. He would try to make good in the army. Maybe it was only the adventure he wanted—he didn't know. He hadn't gone into that. He hated the Germans. He wanted one chance at them, anyhow. They were beasts.
Clayton, listening, was amazed at the depth of feeling and anger in his voice.
“I'll talk to your mother,” he agreed, when the boy's passion had spent itself. “I think she will release you.” But he was less certain than he pretended to be. He remembered Natalie's drooping eyelids that night at dinner. She might absolve him from the promise, but there were other ways of holding him back than promises.
“Perhaps we would better go into the situation thoroughly,” he suggested. “I have rather understood, lately, that you—what about Marion Hayden, Graham?”
“I'm engaged to her.”