that
was what war meant … what tomorrow might bring to millions of parents like himself .
He
stiffened his shoulders, and opened the sketch-book again. What watery stuff
was he made of, he wondered? Just because the boy lay as if he were posing for
a tombstone! … What of Signorelli, who had sat at his dead son’s side and drawn
him, tenderly, minutely, while the coffin waited?
Well,
damn Signorelli—that was all! Campton threw down his book, turned out the
sitting-room lights, and limped away to bed.
V.
The
next morning he said to George, over coffee on the terrace: “I think I’ll drop
in at Cook’s about our tickets.”
George
nodded, munching his golden roll.
“Right. I’ll run up to see mother, then.”
His
father was silent. Inwardly he was saying to himself: “The chances are she’ll
be going back to Deauville this afternoon.”
There
had not been much to gather from the newspapers heaped at their feet. Austria had ordered general mobilisation; but while
the tone of the despatches was nervous and contradictory that of the leading
articles remained almost ominously reassuring. Campton absorbed the reassurance
without heeding its quality: it was a drug he had to have at any price.
He
expected the Javanese dancer to sit for him that afternoon, but he had not
proposed to George to be present. On the chance that things might eventually
take a wrong turn he meant to say a word to Fortin-Lescluze; and the presence
of his son would have been embarrassing.
“You’ll
be back for lunch?” he called to George, who still lounged on the terrace in
pyjamas.
“Rather.— This , unless mother makes a point… in case she’s leaving.”
“Oh,
of course,” said Campton with grim cordiality.
“You
see, dear old boy, I’ve got to see Uncle Andy some time…” It was the grotesque
name that George in his babyhood, had given to Mr. Brant, and when he grew up
it had been difficult to substitute another. “Especially now” George added,
pulling himself up out of his chair.
“Now?”
They
looked at each other in silence, irritation in the father’s eye, indulgent
amusement in the son’s.
“Why,
if you and I are really off on this long trek”
“Oh,
of course,” agreed Campton, relieved. “You’d much better lunch with them. I
always want you to do what’s decent.” He paused on the threshold to add: “By
the way, don’t forget Adele.”
“Well,
rather not,” his son responded. “And we’ll keep the evening free for something
awful.”
As
he left the room he heard George rapping on the telephone and calling out Miss
Anthony’s number.
Campton
had to have reassurance at any price; and he got it, as usual, irrationally but
irresistibly, through his eyes. The mere fact that the midsummer sun lay so
tenderly on Paris, that the bronze dolphins of the fountains in the square were
spraying the Nereids’ Louis Philippe chignons as playfully as ever; that the sleepy Cities of France dozed as heavily on
their thrones, and the Horses of Marly pranced as fractiously on their
pedestals; that the glorious central setting of the city lay there in its usual
mellow pomp—all this gave him a sense of security that no crisscrossing of
Reuters and Havases could shake.
Nevertheless,
he reflected that there was no use in battling with the silly hysterical crowd
he would be sure to encounter at Cook’s; and having left word with the
hotel-porter to secure two “sleepings” on the Naples
was what war meant … what tomorrow might bring to millions of parents like himself .
He
stiffened his shoulders, and opened the sketch-book again. What watery stuff
was he made of, he wondered? Just because the boy lay as if he were posing for
a tombstone! … What of Signorelli, who had sat at his dead son’s side and drawn
him, tenderly, minutely, while the coffin waited?
Well,
damn Signorelli—that was all! Campton threw down his book, turned out the
sitting-room lights, and limped away to bed.
V.
The
next morning he said to George, over coffee on the terrace: “I think I’ll drop
in at Cook’s about our tickets.”
George
nodded, munching his golden roll.
“Right. I’ll run up to see mother, then.”
His
father was silent. Inwardly he was saying to himself: “The chances are she’ll
be going back to Deauville this afternoon.”
There
had not been much to gather from the newspapers heaped at their feet. Austria had ordered general mobilisation; but while
the tone of the despatches was nervous and contradictory that of the leading
articles remained almost ominously reassuring. Campton absorbed the reassurance
without heeding its quality: it was a drug he had to have at any price.
He
expected the Javanese dancer to sit for him that afternoon, but he had not
proposed to George to be present. On the chance that things might eventually
take a wrong turn he meant to say a word to Fortin-Lescluze; and the presence
of his son would have been embarrassing.
“You’ll
be back for lunch?” he called to George, who still lounged on the terrace in
pyjamas.
“Rather.— This , unless mother makes a point… in case she’s leaving.”
“Oh,
of course,” said Campton with grim cordiality.
“You
see, dear old boy, I’ve got to see Uncle Andy some time…” It was the grotesque
name that George in his babyhood, had given to Mr. Brant, and when he grew up
it had been difficult to substitute another. “Especially now” George added,
pulling himself up out of his chair.
“Now?”
They
looked at each other in silence, irritation in the father’s eye, indulgent
amusement in the son’s.
“Why,
if you and I are really off on this long trek”
“Oh,
of course,” agreed Campton, relieved. “You’d much better lunch with them. I
always want you to do what’s decent.” He paused on the threshold to add: “By
the way, don’t forget Adele.”
“Well,
rather not,” his son responded. “And we’ll keep the evening free for something
awful.”
As
he left the room he heard George rapping on the telephone and calling out Miss
Anthony’s number.
Campton
had to have reassurance at any price; and he got it, as usual, irrationally but
irresistibly, through his eyes. The mere fact that the midsummer sun lay so
tenderly on Paris, that the bronze dolphins of the fountains in the square were
spraying the Nereids’ Louis Philippe chignons as playfully as ever; that the sleepy Cities of France dozed as heavily on
their thrones, and the Horses of Marly pranced as fractiously on their
pedestals; that the glorious central setting of the city lay there in its usual
mellow pomp—all this gave him a sense of security that no crisscrossing of
Reuters and Havases could shake.
Nevertheless,
he reflected that there was no use in battling with the silly hysterical crowd
he would be sure to encounter at Cook’s; and having left word with the
hotel-porter to secure two “sleepings” on the Naples
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