impatient gesture. “If I were—much it would matter!”

“Ah, but you might tell George; and George is not to know.” She paused, and then bounced round on him abruptly. She always moved and spoke in explosions, as if the wires that agitated her got tangled, and then were too suddenly jerked loose.

“Does George know?”

“About his mother’s tears?”

“About this plan you’re all hatching to have him discharged?”

Campton reddened under her lashless blue gaze, 84and the consciousness of doing so made his answer all the curter.

84

“Probably not—unless you’ve told him!”

The shot appeared to reach the mark, for an answering blush suffused her sallow complexion. “You’d better not put ideas into my head!” she laughed. Something in her tone reminded him of all her old dogged loyalties, and made him ashamed of his taunt.

“Anyhow,” he grumbled, “his place is not in the French army.”

“That was for you and Julia to decide twenty-six years ago, wasn’t it? Now it’s up to him.”

Her capricious adoption of American slang, fitted anyhow into her old-fashioned and punctilious English, sometimes amused but oftener exasperated Campton.

“If you’re going to talk modern slang you ought to give up those ridiculous stays, and not wear a fringe like a mid-Victorian royalty,” he jeered, trying to laugh off his exasperation.

She let this pass with a smile. “Well, I wish I could find the language to make you understand how much better it would be to leave George alone. This war will be the making of him.”

“He’s made quite to my satisfaction as it is, thanks. But what’s the use of talking? You always get your phrases out of books.”

85The door opened, and Mrs. Brant came in.

85

Her appearance answered to Miss Anthony’s description. A pearly mist covered her face, and some reviving liquid had cleared her congested eyes. Her poor hands had suddenly grown so thin and dry that the heavy rings, slipping down to the joints, slid back into place as she 

 Prev. P 50/246 next