Father and son came back to the hotel, and there were more delayed cables. But Beauty phoned; she wanted very much to talk to Lanny — just a few minutes, she promised — and Robbie said all right, he'd go on with the decoding himself.
Beauty was pale, seeming more distraught than ever; she was walking up and down the room, twisting her hands together. “Marcel has gone to war,” she announced.
There was a telegram lying on the table, and Lanny read it. “I have been called to the colors. God bless you. Love.” No high-pressure salesmanship here!
“Lanny I've got to make up my mind now!” exclaimed the mother. “I've got to decide our whole future.”
“Yes, Beauty,” said the boy, quietly.
“I want to think about your happiness, as well as my own.” *
“Don't bother about me, Beauty. I'm going to make the best of whatever you decide. If you're Harry's wife, I'll make myself agreeable and never give you any worry.”
“It'll mean that you go to live in America. Will you like that?”
“I don't know, because I don't know what I'll find; but I'll get along.”
“Tell me what you really prefer.”