Campton led her to George’s door, but left her there; she did not appear to notice whether or not he was following her. He whispered: “Careful about his temperature; he’s very weak,” and she bent her profile silently as she went in.
XXVII
George, that evening, seemed rather better, and his temperature had not gone up: Campton had to repress a movement of jealousy at Julia’s having done her son no harm. Her experience as a nurse, disciplining a vague gift for the sickroom, had developed in her the faculty of self-command: before the war, if George had met with a dangerous accident, she would have been more encumbering than helpful.
Campton had to admit the change, but it did not draw them any nearer. Her manner of loving their son was too different. Nowadays, when he and Anderson Brant were together, he felt that they were thinking of the same things in the same way; but Julia’s face, even aged and humanized by grief, was still a mere mask to him. He could never tell what form her thoughts about George might be taking.
Mr. Brant, on his wife’s arrival, had judged it discreet to efface himself. Campton hunted for him in vain in the park, and under the cloister; he remained invisible till they met at the early dinner which they shared with the staff. But the meal did not last long, and when it was over, and nurses and doctors scattered, Mr. Brant again slipped away, leaving his wife and Campton alone.
Campton glanced after him, surprised. “Why does he go?”
Mrs. Brant pursed her lips, evidently as much surprised by his question as he by her husband’s withdrawal.
“I suppose he’s going to bed—to be ready for his early start to-morrow.”
“A start?”
She stared. “He’s going back to Paris.”