Graham was waiting in Clayton's dressing-room when he went up-stairs.
Through the closed door they could hear Natalie's sleepy and rather
fretful orders to her maid. Graham rose when he entered, and threw away
his cigaret.

"I guess it has come, father."

"It looks like it."

A great wave of tenderness for the boy flooded over him. That tall,
straight body, cast in his own mold, but young, only ready to live, that
was to be cast into the crucible of war, to come out--God alone knew
how. And not his boy only, but millions of other boys. Yet--better to
break the body than ruin the soul.

"How is mother taking it?"

Natalie's voice came through the door. She was insisting that the house
be kept quiet the next morning. She wanted to sleep late. Clayton caught
the boy's eyes on him, and a half smile on his face.

"Does she know?"

"Yes."

"She isn't taking it very hard, is she?" Then his voice changed. "I
wish you'd talk to her, father. She's--well, she's got me! You see, I
promised her not to go in without her consent."

"When did you do that?"

"The night we broke with Germany in February. I was a fool, but she was
crying, and I didn't know what else to do. And"--there was a ring of
desperation in his voice--"she's holding me to it. I've been to her over
and over again."