“That’s forcible, dear, but I never heard you speak of iron ore so carelessly.”
“Helen, that man is magnetite, or he could never hold thirty thousand men together. But there’s a yellow streak in him. There’s phosphorus in him, and titanium. If it weren’t for that, he’d be a great idealist.”
“I’m sure that’s a nice analysis. Now just go into your study and think up some way of turning his yellow streak into idealism. I’ve heard you say that phosphorus is just the thing for third rails, and that titanium prevents train wrecks, and I certainly wish to prevent wrecking our boy’s life. When you hear me sing something, come in and speak to Marvin. By that time you’ll have a plan.” Chase obeyed.
About eleven o’clock he heard her begin to play the musical setting of Lamartine’s poem, Jocelyn. Then arose the subtly comforting words of the refugee mother to her child.
He came to the door of the study and looked. Marvin had come in, and was leaning on the piano, pale and grave.
The father sauntered forth and stood at the other side of the piano until the song was finished. Then he remarked, “I call that a lullaby that any man might go to sleep to. Anyhow, I’m going, unless the boy wants to sit up.”
“I’m not sleepy, sir.”
“Then let’s hear about your plans. How soon do you expect to be mustered out?”
“It’s hard to say, but I presume by the first of July.”
“And after that?”