get through with school in January, now. But it
gets pretty lonely, sometimes when there's nobody to run into that you
can really talk to--the people I used to play with in College are out
of New York for the summer--even Peter's down at Southampton most of the
time or out at Star Bay--you're in Melgrove--Sam Woodward's married and
working in Chicago--Brick Turner's in New Mexico--I've dropped out of
the Wall Street bunch in the class that hang out at the Yale Club--I'm
posted there anyhow, and besides they've all made money and I haven't,
and all they want to talk about is puts and calls. And then you remember
things.

"The time my pilot and I blew into Paris when we thought we were hitting
somewhere around Nancy till we saw that blessed Eiffel Tower poking out
of the fog. And the Hotel de Turenne on Rue Vavin and getting up in the
morning and going out for a cafe cognac breakfast, and everything being
amiable and pleasant, and kidding along all the dear little ladies that
sat on the _terrasse_ when they dropped in to talk over last evening's
affairs. I suppose I'm a sensualist--"

"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