“Mother——?”
“She’s coming too—very soon.”
George’s lips were screwed into a whimsical smile. “I must have a shave first,” he said, and drowsed off again, his hand in Campton’s....
“The other gentleman—?” the nurse questioned the next morning.
Campton had spent the night in the hospital, stretched on the floor at his son’s threshold. It was a breach of rules, but for once the major had condoned it. As for Mr. Brant, Campton had forgotten all about him, and at first did not know what the nurse meant. Then he woke with a start to the consciousness of his fellow-traveller’s nearness. Mr. Brant, the nurse explained, had come to the hospital early, and had been waiting below for the last two hours. Campton, almost as gaunt and unshorn as his son, pulled himself to his feet and went down. In the hall the banker, very white, but smooth and trim as ever, was patiently measuring the muddy flags.
“Less temperature this morning,” Campton called from the last flight.
“Oh,” stammered Mr. Brant, red and pale by turns.
Campton smiled haggardly and pulled himself together in an effort of communicativeness. “Look here—he’s asked for you; you’d better go up. Only for a few minutes, please; he’s awfully weak.”
Mr. Brant, speechless, stood stiffly waiting to be conducted. Campton noticed the mist in his eyes, and took pity on him.