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.