“Twenty-two.” Graham glanced at him curiously. His father knew his age, of course.
“I was married at your age.”
“Tough luck,” said Graham. And then: “I'm sorry, father, I didn't mean that. But it's pretty early, isn't it? No time for a good time, or anything.”
“I fancy Nature meant men to marry young, don't you? It saves a lot of—complications.”
“The girl a fellow marries at that age isn't often the one he'd marry at thirty,” said Graham. And feeling that he had said the wrong thing, changed the subject quickly. Clayton did not try to turn it back into its former channel. The boy was uncomfortable, unresponsive. There was a barrier between them, of self-consciousness on his part, of evasion and discomfort on Graham's.
On the way over they had sighted Delight in the new car. She had tried to turn, had backed into a ditch and was at that moment ruefully surveying a machine which had apparently sat down on its rear wheels with its engine pointed pathetically skyward.
Delight's face fell when she recognized them.
“Of course it would have to be you,” she said. “Of all the people who might have seen my shame—I'm going on with you. I never want to see the old thing again.”
“Anything smashed?” Graham inquired.
“It looks smashed. I can't tell.”