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"Since when?"
"Last fall, sir."
"Does your mother know?"
"I told her, yes." He looked up quickly. "I didn't tell you. I
knew you disliked her, and mother said?" He checked himself.
"Marion wanted to wait. She wanted to be welcome when she came
into the family."
"I don't so much dislike her as I - disapprove of her."
"That's rather worse, isn't it?"
Clayton was tired. His very spirit was tired. He sat down in his
big chair by the fire.
"She is older than you are, you know."
"I don't see what that has to do with it, father."
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.


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