Mrs. Buchan was old-fashioned, but she found herself murmuring amazedly something about railroads and motor-cars. But he did not seem to hear her.
“Yes,” he continued, “I must be in New York by morning. The first transport with our troops sails for France.”
“I know,” she said, proudly. “My grandson, George Buchan, sails for France.”
“George Buchan? There was a George Buchan fought at Princeton, I remember.”
“There was. And another George Buchan in the War of Eighteen-twelve. And a John in the Mexican War. And a William in eighteen sixty-three. There was no one in the Spanish War—my son was dead and my grandson was too young. But now he is ready.”
“Every American is ready,” her visitor answered. “I am ready.”
“You?” she broke out. And for the first time she seemed to see that his hair was white. “Are you going?”
“Every one who has ever fought for America is going. There is a company of them behind me. Listen.”
Down the road there was faintly to be heard the clatter of hoofs.
“Some joined me in Virginia, some as we crossed the Potomac by Arlington, where there is a house which once belonged to a relative of mine. And there were others, old friends, who met me as we came through Valley Forge in Pennsylvania. You would not now know Valley Forge,” he finished, half to himself.