George laughed. “Yes, and double quick.”
Both were silent again, each thinking his own thoughts. They were apparently the same, for just as Campton was about to ask where George had decided that they should take their last dinner, the young man said abruptly: “Look here, Dad; I’d planned a little tête-à-tête for us this evening.”
“Yes——?”
“Well—I can’t. I’m going to chuck you.” He smiled a little, his colour rising nervously. “For some people I’ve just run across—who were awfully kind to me at St. Moritz—and in New York last winter. I didn’t know they were here till ... till just now. I’m awfully sorry; but I’ve simply got to dine with them.”
There was a silence. Campton stared out over his son’s shoulder at the great sunlit square. “Oh, all right,” he said briskly.
This—on George’s last night!
“You don’t mind much, do you? I’ll be back early, for a last pow-wow on the terrace.” George paused, and finally brought out: “You see, it really wouldn’t have done to tell mother that I was deserting her on my last evening because I was dining with you!”
A weight was lifted from Campton’s heart, and he felt ashamed of having failed to guess the boy’s real motive.
“My dear fellow, naturally ... quite right. And you can stop in and see your mother on the way home. You’ll find me here whenever you turn up.”
George looked relieved. “Thanks a lot—you always know. And now for my adieux to Adele.”