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On this foundation of girl he built the superstructure of his days.
Not evil, but wholly irresponsible. The urge of vital youth had
caught him and held him. And Clayton, sitting that day beside him
in the car, while Graham drove and the golf clubs rattled in their
bags at his feet, remembered again the impulses of his own
adolescence, and wondered. There had been a time when he would
have gone to the boy frankly, with the anxieties he was beginning
to feel. There were so many things he wanted to tell the boy. So
many warnings he should have.
But Natalie had stolen him. That was what it amounted to. She had
stolen his confidence, as only a selfish woman could. And against
that cabal of mother and son he felt helpless. It was even more
than that. As against Natalie's indulgence he did not wish to pose
as a mentor pointing out always the way of duty.
"How old are you, Graham?" he said suddenly.
"Twenty-two." Graham glanced at him curiously. His father knew
his age, of course.


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