He was glad to have a word with her before meeting Mrs. Brant, though his impulse had been almost as strong to avoid the one as the other. He dreaded belligerent bluster as much as vain whimpering, and in the depths of his soul he had to own that it would have been easier to talk to Mr. Brant than to either of the women.
“Julia is powdering her nose,” Miss Anthony continued. “She has an idea that if you see she’s been crying you’ll be awfully angry.”
Campton made an impatient gesture. “If I were—much it would matter!”
“Ah, but you might tell George; and George is not to know.” She paused, and then bounced round on him abruptly. She always moved and spoke in explosions, as if the wires that agitated her got tangled, and then were too suddenly jerked loose.
“Does George know?”
“About his mother’s tears?”
“About this plan you’re all hatching to have him discharged?”
Campton reddened under her lashless blue gaze, and the consciousness of doing so made his answer all the curter.
“Probably not—unless you’ve told him!”
The shot appeared to reach the mark, for an answering blush suffused her sallow complexion. “You’d better not put ideas into my head!” she laughed. Something in her tone reminded him of all her old dogged loyalties, and made him ashamed of his taunt.