"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.