“Right. I’ll run up to see mother, then.”
His father was silent. Inwardly he was saying to himself: “The chances are she’ll be going back to Deauville this afternoon.”
There had not been much to gather from the newspapers heaped at their feet. Austria had ordered general mobilisation; but while the tone of the despatches was nervous and contradictory that of the leading articles remained almost ominously reassuring. Campton absorbed the reassurance without heeding its quality: it was a drug he had to have at any price.
He expected the Javanese dancer to sit to him that afternoon, but he had not proposed to George to be present. On the chance that things might eventually take a wrong turn he meant to say a word to Fortin-Lescluze; and the presence of his son would have been embarrassing.
“You’ll be back for lunch?” he called to George, who still lounged on the terrace in pyjamas.
“Rather.—That is, unless mother makes a point ... in case she’s leaving.”
“Oh, of course,” said Campton with grim cordiality.
“You see, dear old boy, I’ve got to see Uncle Andy some time....” It was the grotesque name that George, in his babyhood, had given to Mr. Brant, and when he grew up it had been difficult to substitute another. “Especially now——” George added, pulling himself up out of his chair.
“Now?”
They looked at each other in silence, irritation in the father’s eye, indulgent amusement in the son’s.