“Maybe for you,” said the boy. “But you know how it is — I never did see enough of my mother. We could read, and play music, and swim, and wait for Marcel to come back.” Lanny stopped, not being sure if it was fair for him to mention that aspect of the matter.
The mother's voice trembled as she said: “He may never come back, Lanny.”
“There's a chance, of course. But Robbie says the war won't last long. And Marcel may never see any fighting — Robbie thinks the Provencal regiments will be kept on the Italian border, at least till they're sure what Italy's going to do. And then again, Marcel might come back wounded, and we'd both want to take care of him. It wouldn't be nice to know that he was hurt, and in need of help, and we couldn't give it.”
“I know, Lanny, I know.” The tears were starting again in the beautiful blue eyes. “That's what has been tearing my heart in half.” She sat with her hands clasped tightly together, and the boy watched her lips trembling. “That's really what you want to do, isn't it, Lanny?”
“You asked me to tell you.”
“I know. I couldn't decide it all by myself. If I do what you say, I may be a forlorn and desolate old woman. You won't get tired of me?”
“You can bet I won't.”
“And you'll stand by Marcel? You'll help us, whatever hard things may come?”
“Indeed I will.”
“You'll be a French boy, Lanny — not an American.”