“All right; I’ll go——” he agreed. “Where are we dining?”
“Oh, I forgot—an awful orgy. Dastrey wants us at the Union. Louis Dastrey is dining with him, and he let me ask Boylston——”
“Boylston——?”
“You don’t know him. A chap who was at Harvard with me. He’s out here studying painting at the Beaux Arts. He’s an awfully good sort, and he wanted to see me before I go.”
The father’s heart sank. Only one whole day more with his boy, and this last evening but one was to be spent with poor embittered Dastrey, and two youths, one unknown to Campton, who would drown them in stupid war-chatter! But it was what George wanted; and there must not be a shade, for George, on these last hours.
“All right! You promised me something awful for to-night,” Campton grinned sardonically.
“Do you mind? I’m sorry.”
“It’s only Dastrey’s damned chauvinism that I mind. Why don’t you ask Adele to join the chorus?”
“Well—you’ll like Boylston,” said George.