Dangerous Days | Page 9

his father's eyes, he looked away.
"Sorry, sir," he said. "Must have had too much champagne. Wasn't
much else to do, was there? Mother's parties - my God, what a dreary
lot!"
Clayton inspected the ice water carafe on the stand and found it empty.
"I'll bring you some water from my room," he said. "And - I don't want
to see you this way again, Graham. When a man cannot take a little
wine at his own table without taking too much he fails to be entirely a
gentleman."
He went out. When he came back, Graham was standing by the fire in
his pajamas, looking young and rather ashamed. Clayton had a flash of
those earlier days when he had come in to bid the boy good night, and
there had always been that last request for water which was to postpone
the final switching off of the light.
"I'm sorry, father."
Clayton put his hand on the boy's shoulder and patted him.
"We'll have to do better next time. That's all."
For a moment the veil of constraint of Natalie's weaving lifted between
them.
"I'm a pretty bad egg, I guess. You'd better shove me off the dock and
let me swim - or drown."
"I'd hardly like to do that, you know. You are all I have."

"I'm no good at the mill."
"You haven't had very much time. I've been a good many years
learning the business."'
"I'll never be any good. Not there. If there was something to build up it
would be different, but it's all done. You've done it. I'm only a sort of
sublimated clerk. I don't mean," he added hastily, "that I think I ought
to have anything more. It's only that - well, the struggle's over, if you
know what I mean."
"I'll talk to you about that to-morrow. Get to bed now. It's one o'clock."
He moved to the doorway. Graham, carafe in hand, stood staring ahead
of him. He had the courage of the last whiskey-and-soda, and a sort of
desperate contrition.
"Father."
"Yes, Graham."
"I wish you'd let me go to France and fly."
Something like a cold hand seemed to close round Clayton's heart.
"Fly! Why?"
"Because I'm not doing any good here. And - because I'd like to see if I
have any good stuff in me. All the fellows are going," he added, rather
weakly.
"That's not a particularly worthy reason, is it?"
"It's about as worthy as making money out of shells, when we haven't
any reason for selling them to the Allies more than the Germans, except
that we can't ship to the Germans."
He looked rather frightened then. But Clayton was not angry. He saw
Natalie's fine hand there, and the boy's impressionable nature.

"Think that over, Graham," he said gravely. "I don't believe you quite
mean it. Good-night."
He went across to his own bedroom, where his silk pajamas, neatly
folded, lay on his painted Louis XVI bed. Under his reading lamp there
was a book. It was a part of Natalie's decorative scheme for the room;
it's binding was mauve, to match the hangings. For the first time since
the room had been done over during his absence he picked up the book.
"Rodney's idea, for a cent!" he reflected, looking rather grimly at the
cover.
He undressed slowly, his mind full of Graham and the problem he
presented. Then he thought of Natalie, and of the little things that made
up her life and filled her days. He glanced about the room, beautiful,
formal, exquisitely appointed. His father's portrait was gone from over
the mantel, and an old French water-color hung there instead. That was
too bad of Natalie. Or had it been Rodney? He would bring it back.
And he gave a fleeting thought to Graham and his request to go abroad.
He had not meant it. It was sheer reaction. But he would talk to
Graham.
He lighted a cigaret, and getting into bed turned on his reading lamp.
Queer how a man could build, and then find that after all he did not
care for the achievement. It was the building alone that was worth
while.
He picked up the book from the table, and opened it casually.
"When first I loved I gave my very soul Utterly unreserved to Love's
control, But Love deceived me, wrenched my youth away, And made
the gold of life forever gray. Long I lived lonely, yet I tried in vain
With any other joy to stifle pain; There is no other joy, I learned to
know, And so returned to love, as long ago, Yet I, this little while ere I
go hence, Love very lightly now, in self defense."
"Twaddle," said Clayton Spencer, and put the book away.