“I’ll go directly,” Gerald promised. “Can I speak to you for one moment first?”
“Speak to me,” Mr. Fentolin repeated, a little wonderingly. “My dear Gerald, is there ever a moment when I am not wholly at your service?”
“That fellow Dunster, on the platform, the first moment I spoke to him, made me feel like a cur,” the boy said, with a sudden access of vigour in his tone. “I told him I was on my way to a golf tournament, and he pointed to the news about the war. Is it true, uncle, that we may be at war at any moment?”
Mr. Fentolin sighed.
“A terrible reflection, my dear boy,” he admitted softly, “but, alas! the finger of probability points that way.”
“Then what about me?” Gerald exclaimed. “I don’t want to complain, but listen. You dragged me home from a public school before I could even join my cadet corps. You’ve kept me banging around here with a tutor. You wouldn’t let me go to the university. You’ve stopped my entering either of the services. I am nineteen years old and useless. Do you know what I should do to-morrow if war broke out? Enlist! It’s the only thing left for me.”
Mr. Fentolin was shocked.
“My dear boy!” he exclaimed. “You must not talk like that! I am quite sure that it would break your mother’s heart. Enlist, indeed! Nothing of the sort. You are part of the civilian population of the country.”
“Civilian population be d——d!” the boy suddenly cried, white with rage. “Uncle, forgive me, I have stood all I can bear. If you won’t let me go in for the army—I could pass my exams to-morrow—I’m off. I’ll enlist without waiting for the war. I can’t bear this idle life any longer.”
Mr. Fentolin leaned a little forward in his chair.