"Then won't you wait?"

"Perfection bores me to tears," she said, and went on up the stairs.

On the morning of Graham's departure, however, he found her prepared to go to the railway-station. She was red-eyed and pale, and he was very sorry for her.

"Do you think it is wise?" he asked.

"I shall see him off, of course. I may never see him again."

And his own tautened nerves almost gave way.

"Don't say that!" he cried. "Don't even think that. And for G.o.d's sake, Natalie, send him off with a smile. That's the least we can do."

"I can't take it as casually as you do."

He gave up then in despair. He saw that Graham watched her uneasily during the early breakfast, and he surmised that the boy's own grip on his self-control was weakened by the tears that dropped into her coffee-cup. He reflected bitterly that all over the country strong women, good women, were sending their boys away to war, giving them with prayer and exaltation. What was wrong with Natalie? What was wrong with his whole life?

When Graham was up-stairs, he turned to her.

"Why do you persist in going, Natalie?"

"I intend to go. That's enough."

"Don't you think you've made him unhappy enough?"

"He has made me unhappy enough."

"You. It is always yourself, Natalie. Why don't you ever think of him?"

He went to the door. "Countermand the order for the limousine," he said to the butler, "and order the small car for Mr. Graham and myself."

"How dare you do that?"

"I am not going to let you ruin the biggest day in his life."

She saw that he meant it. She was incredulous, reckless, angry, and thwarted for the first time in her self-indulgent life.

"I hate you," she said slowly. "I hate you!"

She turned and went slowly up the stairs. Graham, knocking at her door a few minutes later, heard the sound of hysterical sobbing, within, but received no reply.

"Good-by, mother," he called. "Good-by. Don't worry. I'll be all right."

When he saw she did not mean to open the door or to reply, he went rather heavily down the stairs.

"I wish she wouldn't," he said. "It makes me darned unhappy."

But Clayton surmised a relief behind his regret, and in the train the boy's eyes were happier than they had been for months.

"I don't know how I'll come out, dad," he said. "But if I don't get through it won't be because I didn't try."

And he did try. The enormous interest of the thing gripped him from the start; There was romance in it, too. He wore his first uniform, too small for him as it was, with immense pride. He rolled out in the morning at reveille, with the feeling that he had just gone to bed, ate hugely at breakfast, learned to make his own cot-bed, and lined up on a vast dusty parade ground for endless evolutions in a boiling sun.

It was rather amusing to find himself being ordered about, in a stentorian voice, by Jackson. And when, in off moments, that capable ex-chauffeur condescended to a few moments of talk and relaxation, the boy was highly gratified.

"Do you think I've got anything in me?" he would inquire anxiously.

And Jackson always said heartily, "Sure you have."

There were times when Graham doubted himself, however. There was one dreadful hour when Graham, in the late afternoon, and under the eyes of his commanding officer and a group of ladies, conducting the highly formal and complicated ceremony of changing the guard, tied a lot of grinning men up in a knot which required the captain of the company and two sergeants to untangle.

"I'm no earthly good," he confided to Jackson that night, sitting on the steps of his barracks. "I know it like a-b-c, and then I get up and try it and all at once I'm just a plain d.a.m.ned fool."

"Don't give up like that, son," Jackson said. "I've seen 'em march a platoon right into the C.O.'s porch before now. And once I just saved a baby-buggy and a pair of twins."

Clayton wrote him daily, and now and then there came a letter from Natalie, cheerful on the surface, but its cheerfulness obviously forced.

And once, to his great surprise, Marion Hayden wrote him.

"I just want you to know," she said, "that I am still interested in you, even if it isn't going to be anything else. And that I am ridiculously proud of you. Isn't it queer to look back on last Winter and think what a lot of careless idiots we were? I suppose war doesn't really change us, but it does make us wonder what we've got in us. I am surprised to find that I am a great deal better than I ever thought I was!"

There was comfort in the letter, but no thrill. He was far away from all that now, like one on the first stage of a long journey, with his eyes ahead.

Then one day he saw a familiar but yet strange figure striding along the country road. Graham was map-sketching that day, and the strange but familiar figure was almost on him when he looked up. It was extremely military, and looked like a general at least. Also it was very red in the face, and was clutching doggedly in its teeth an old briar pipe.

But what had appeared from the front to be an ultra military figure on closer inspection turned out to be a procession. Pulling back hard on a rope behind was the company goat, Elinor.

The ultra-military figure paused by Graham's sketching-stool, and said, "Young man, do you know where this creature belongs? I found her trying to commit suicide on the rifle range--why, Graham!"

It was Doctor Haverford. He grew a trifle less military then, and borrowed some pipe tobacco. He looked oddly younger, Graham thought, and rather self-conscious of his uniform.

"Every inch a soldier, Graham," he chuckled. "Still have to use a hook and eye at the bottom of the coat--blouse," he corrected himself. "But I'm getting my waist-line again. How's the--whoa!" he called, as Elinor wrapped the rope around his carefully putted legs. "Infernal animal!" he grumbled. "I just paid a quarter to have these puttees shined. How's the family?"

"Mother has gone to Linndale. The house is finished. Have you been here long, sir?"

"Two weeks. Hang it all, Graham, I wish I'd let this creature commit suicide. She's--do you know Delight is here?"

"Here? Why, no."

"At the hostess house," said the chaplain, proudly. "Doing her bit, too.

Mrs. Haverford wanted to come too, and sew b.u.t.tons on, or something.

But I told her two out of three was a fair percentage. I hear that Washington has sent for your father.

"I hadn't heard."

"He's a big man, Graham. We're going to hear from him. Only--I thought he looked tired when I saw him last. Somebody ought to look after him a bit." He was patiently untangling himself from Elinor's rope. "You know there are two kinds of people in the world: those who look after themselves and those who look after others. That's your father--the last."

Graham's face clouded. How true that was! He knew now, as he had not known before. He was thinking clearly those days. Hard work and nothing to drink had clarified his mind, and he saw things at home as they really were. Clayton's infinite patience, his strength and his gentleness. But he only said:

"He has had a hard year." He raised his eyes and looked at the chaplain.

"I didn't help him any, you know, sir."