In Clayton's defense was his own situation. He did not want the boy to repeat his mistakes, to marry the wrong woman, and then find, too late, the right one. During the impassioned appeal that followed he was doggedly determined to prevent that. Perhaps he lost the urgency in the boy's voice. Perhaps in his new conviction that the passions of the forties were the only real ones, he took too little count of the urge of youth.
He roused himself.
“You think you are really in love with her?”
“I want her. I know that.”
“That's different. That's—you are too young to know what you want.”
“I ought to be married. It would settle me. I'm sick of batting round.”
“You want to marry before you enter the army?”
“Yes.”
“Do you think for a moment that your wife will be willing to let you go?”
Graham straightened himself.