"Paul couldn't get a permit, as you said on the telephone. Things have tightened up worse than ever now that the Peace Conference has really begun."
Mrs. Walbridge nodded. "I know."
He rose and put his pen in his pocket. "I must be off now," he said. "I've several things to do. Can you arrange to go by the one-thirty train?"
"Yes. Paul rang up this Mr. White, and he said he would manage to pull it through."
"Good." The young man went to the desolate little woman and put his hand on her shoulder. "Cheer up, Mrs. Walbridge," he said. "Lots of people pull through pneumonia, and I believe Guy's going to. I have a kind of feeling that he is."
She smiled at him, a little consoled, as one often is by just such foolish hopefulness.
"If only there wasn't that Conference," she said, beautifully disregarding the world's interests, "then Paul could come with me."
"Well, Paul can't, but—now, listen to me—I can, and I'm going to."
She stared at him. "To the station, you mean?"
"No, I don't. I mean to Paris. Now you mustn't keep me. I've got a thousand things to do, but I'll be here in a taxi at twelve o'clock. Shall I get the tickets?"