At last the older man drew himself together. “What army?” he asked. “The French?”
“No, I thought of that, since I speak French decently,” said his son briskly, glad of the change in mood. “But I rather think—though I’m not sure—that I’d have to join the Foreign Legion there. And sacrifice is all very well, you know, but it needn’t be suicide. I mean to come back alive if I can do so honorably. And of course I’ve thought of the Canadian army. But there’s too much neighborly dislike between Canadians and Americans. So I’m going into the English army, if they’ll take me. I’ve a lot of friends in England, you know. I’ve visited some of them at their homes. They’ll all be in as officers. Perhaps I can get into some regiment where I’ll be under one of them.”
“And you leave?”
“Next Wednesday. I’ll catch the ‘Mauretania.’ Don’t be angry with me, sir,” he begged.
His father shook his head. “No,” he replied dully, “I suppose as a matter of fact I’d have done the same thing at your age.”
“It’s the kindest thing you could say to me,” said the young man, with a deep sigh of relief. He rose. “I mustn’t keep you any longer now. The office is full of people waiting to see you. I say, dad, to-night I—I must go to see Marian, but to-morrow night let’s dine at the club together and have champagne and then go to a show and be awfully gay!”
“All right,” said his father.
They shook hands, and Stacey departed.
But when the door had closed behind him Mr. Carroll did not at once summon his stenographer. Instead, he sat gazing, as before Stacey’s arrival, at the calendar on the wall opposite. At last he rose, crossed the room, and tore off the leaf—“Nov. 5.” He folded the paper once across and placed it carefully in his pocket-book.
Then he returned to his chair and pressed the button in his desk.