“Well, then,” Campton continued his argument, “as he’s likely to be in Paris now till the war is over—which means some time next year, they all say—why shouldn’t I take a jolly apartment somewhere for the two of us? Those pictures I did last spring brought me in a lot of money, and there’s no reason——” His face lit up. “Servants, you say? Why, my poor Mariette may be back from Lille any time now. They tell me there’s sure to be a big push in the spring. They’re saving up for that all along the line. Ask Dastrey ... ask....”
“You’d better let George go to his mother,” said Miss Anthony concisely.
“Why?”
“Because it’s natural—it’s human. You’re not always, you know,” she added with another pucker.
“Not human?”
“I don’t mean that you’re inhuman. But you see things differently.”
“I don’t want to see anything but one; and that’s my own son. How shall I ever see George if he’s at the Avenue Marigny?”
“He’ll come to you.”
“Yes—when he’s not at Mrs. Talkett’s!”
Miss Anthony frowned. The subject had been touched upon between them soon after Campton’s return, but Miss Anthony had little light to throw on it: George had been as mute with her as with every one else, and she knew Mrs. Talkett but slightly, and seldom saw her. Yet Campton perceived that she could not hear the young woman named without an involuntary contraction of her brows.