Mr. Brant’s private office was as glitteringly neat as when Campton had entered it for the first time, and seen the fatal telegram about Benny Upsher marring the order of the desk.
Now he crossed the threshold with different feelings. To have Mr. Brant look up and smile, to shake hands with him, accept one of his cigars, and sink into one of the blue leather armchairs, seemed to be in the natural order of things. He felt only the relief of finding himself with the one person likely to understand.
“About George——” he began.
“Yes?” said Mr. Brant briskly. “It’s curious—I was just thinking of looking you up. It’s his birthday next Tuesday, you know.”
“Oh——” said the father, slightly put off. He had not come to talk of birthdays; nor did he need to be reminded of his son’s by Mr. Brant. He concluded that Mr. Brant would be less easy to get on with in Paris than at the front.
“And we thought of celebrating the day by a little party—a dinner, with perhaps the smallest kind of a dance: or just bridge—yes, probably just bridge,” the banker added tentatively. “Opinions differ as to the suitability—it’s for his mother to decide. But of course no evening clothes; and we hoped perhaps to persuade you. Our only object is to amuse him—to divert his mind from this wretched entanglement.”
It was doubtful if Mr. Brant had ever before made so long a speech, except perhaps at a board meeting; and then only when he read the annual report. He turned pink and stared over Campton’s shoulder at the panelled white wall, on which a false Reynolds hung.
Campton meditated. The blush was the blush of Mr. Brant, but the voice was the voice of Julia. Still, it was probable that neither husband nor wife was aware how far matters had gone with Mrs. Talkett.
“George is more involved than you think,” Campton said.
Mr. Brant looked startled.