Page:A Son at the Front (1923) Wharton.djvu/250

The next time Campton saw Mrs. Brant was in his own studio.

He was preparing, one morning, to leave the melancholy place, when the bell rang and his bonne let her in. Her dress was less frivolous than at Mrs. Talkett's, and she wore a densely patterned veil, like the ladies in cinema plays when they visit their seducers or their accomplices.

Through the veil she looked at him agitatedly, and said: "George is not at Sainte Menehould."

He stared.

"No. Anderson was there the day before yesterday."

"Brant? At Sainte Menehould?" Campton felt the blood rush to his temples. What! He, the boy's father, had not so much as dared to ask for the almost unattainable permission to go into the war-zone; and this other man, who was nothing to George, absolutely nothing, who had no right whatever to ask for leave to visit him, had somehow obtained the priceless favour, and instead of passing it on, instead of offering at least to share it with the boy's father, had sneaked off secretly to feast on the other's lawful privilege!

"How the devil———?" Campton burst out.

"Oh, he got a Red Cross mission; it was arranged very suddenly—through a friend. . ."

"Yes—well?" Campton stammered, sitting down lest