“Anyhow,” he grumbled, “his place is not in the French army.”
“That was for you and Julia to decide twenty-six years ago, wasn’t it? Now it’s up to him.”
Her capricious adoption of American slang, fitted anyhow into her old-fashioned and punctilious English, sometimes amused but oftener exasperated Campton.
“If you’re going to talk modern slang you ought to give up those ridiculous stays, and not wear a fringe like a mid-Victorian royalty,” he jeered, trying to laugh off his exasperation.
She let this pass with a smile. “Well, I wish I could find the language to make you understand how much better it would be to leave George alone. This war will be the making of him.”
“He’s made quite to my satisfaction as it is, thanks. But what’s the use of talking? You always get your phrases out of books.”
The door opened, and Mrs. Brant came in.
Her appearance answered to Miss Anthony’s description. A pearly mist covered her face, and some reviving liquid had cleared her congested eyes. Her poor hands had suddenly grown so thin and dry that the heavy rings, slipping down to the joints, slid back into place as she shook hands with Campton.
“Thank you for coming,” she said.
“Oh——” he protested, helpless, and disturbed by Miss Anthony’s presence. At the moment his former wife’s feelings were more intelligible to him than his friend’s: the maternal fibre stirred in her, and made her more appealing than any elderly virgin on the war-path.