“Everybody is.” from Oliver. “Well, that's another thing. Women. And love. Ollie, my son, you don't know how very damn lucky you are!” “I think I do, rather,” says Oliver, a little stiffly. “You don't. Because I'd give everything I have for what you've got and all you can do is worry about whether you'll get married in six months or eight.” “I'm worrying about whether I'll ever get married at all,” from Oliver, rebelliously. “True enough, which is where I'm glowingly sympathetic for you, though you may not notice it. But you're one of the few people I know--officers at least--who came out of the war without stepping all through their American home ideas of morality like a clown through a fake glass window. And I'm--Freuded--if I see how or why you did.” “Don't myself--unless you call it pure accident” says Oliver, frankly. “Well, that's it--women. Don't think I'm in love but the other thing pulls pretty strong. And I want to get married all right, but what girls I know and like best are in Peter's crowd and most of them own their own Rolls Royces--and I won't be earning even a starvation wage for two, inside of three or four years, I suppose. And as you can't get away from seeing and talking to women unless you go and live in a cave--well, about once every two weeks or oftener I'd like to chuck every lawbook I have out of the window on the head of the nearest cop--go across again and get some sort of a worthless job--I speak good enough French to do it if I wanted--and go to hell like a gentleman without having to worry about it any longer. And I won't do that because I'm through with it and the other thing is worth while. So there you are.” “So you don't think you're in love--eh Monsieur Billett?” Oliver puts irritatingly careful quotation marks around the verb. Ted twists a little. “It all seems so blamed impossible,” he says cryptically. “Oh, I wouldn't call Elinor Piper _that_ exactly.” Oliver grins. “Even if she is Peter's sister. Old Peter. She's a nice girl.” “_A nice girl?_” Ted begins rather violently. “She's--why she's--” then pauses, seeing the trap. “Oh very well--that's all I wanted to know.” “Oh don't look so much like a little tin Talleyrand, Ollie! I'm _not_ sure--and that's rather more than I'd even hint to anybody else.” “Thanks, little darling.” But Ted has been stung too suddenly, even by Oliver's light touch on something which he thought was a complete and mortuary secret, to be in a mood for sarcasm. “Oh, well, you might as well know. I suppose you do.” “All I know is that you seem to have been visiting--Peter--a good deal this summer.” “Well, it started with Peter.” “It does so often.” “Oh Lord, now I've _got_ to tell you. Not that there's anything--definite--to tell.” He pauses, looking at his hands. “Well, I've just been telling you how I feel--sometimes. And other times--being with Elinor--she's been so--kind. But I don't know, Ollie, honestly I don't, and that's that.”