One day late in May, Clayton, walking up-town in lieu of the golf he had been forced to abandon, met Doctor Haverford on the street, and found his way barred by that rather worried-looking gentleman.
“I was just going to see you, Clayton,” he said. “About two things. I'll walk back a few blocks with you.”
He was excited, rather exalted.
“I'm going in,” he announced. “Regimental chaplain. I've got a year's leave of absence. I'm rather vague about what a chaplain does, but I rather fancy he can be useful.”
“You'll get over, of course. You're lucky. And you'll find plenty to do.”
“I've been rather anxious,” Doctor Haverford confided. “I've been a clergyman so long that I don't know just how I'll measure up as a man. You know what I mean. I am making no reflection on the church. But I've been sheltered and—well, I've been looked after. I don't think I am physically brave. It would be a fine thing,” he said wryly, “if the chaplain were to turn and run under fire!”
“I shouldn't worry about that.”
“My salary is to go on. But I don't like that, either. If I hadn't a family I wouldn't accept it. Delight thinks I shouldn't, anyhow. As a matter of fact, there ought to be no half-way measures about our giving ourselves. If I had a son to give it would be different.”
Clayton looked straight ahead. He knew that the rector had, for the moment, forgotten that he had a son to give and that he had not yet given.
“Why don't you accept a small allowance?” he inquired quietly. “Or, better still, why don't you let me know how much it will take and let me do it? I'd like to feel that I was represented in France—by you,” he added.