“Did it not occur to you that he has a more important fight here than there?”
“It might occur to me,” admitted the lawyer. “But I don’t know that I’d care to have it occur to a son of mine.”
She gave him her flashing smile. “That is clever of you,” she said. “I like that! And now I will violate a confidence, but it must go no farther. The doctor would not pass Mr. Robson for active service. Mr. Galpin told me.”
“I never take an afternoon off,” sighed the lawyer, “but some obtrusive business crops up and ruins the day’s sport. Let’s go down to the office, Mr. Clark, and talk this over.”
One more bit of meddling with the irresponsible fates which rule men and newspapers was committed by Miss Ames that afternoon. Magnus Laurens, just off a train, came in late to the tea, and was straightway seized upon.
“Uncle Magnus! Where have you been, all these weeks and months?”
“Well, Marcia!” He took both her hands and looked down into her face. “What a sight you are! If you’re ever allowed to get away from America again, I’ll lose all faith in our young manhood....Where have I been? Here and there and everywhere. Organizing the State Council of Defense. Raising money. Trips to Washington. Letting family and business go to the bow-wows.”
“Are you in touch with Fenchester matters?”
“Hello! What’s this? You’re talking like a politician. After my vote?”
“Do you know that The Guardian has been making the fight almost alone here against the anti-war crowd?” Magnus Laurens rubbed his big, gray head perplexedly. “I’ve got to look into that situation. When Jeremy Robson went back on us—”