Blodgett lowered himself to his chair. He wiped his face with one of his gay handkerchiefs. He spoke reasonably.
"My place is at home. All right. I'll make it easier then for the thin people that can go. I'm going to look after you boys. Mundy's not big enough. I've got a man in view I can keep tabs on, and Blodgett'll always be sitting down here seeing you don't get stung."
He sighed profoundly.
"Guess that'll have to be my share."
George would rather have had the man curse him. It struck directly at his pride to submit to this unmasking of his jealous opinion. He strangled his quick impulse to reach forward, to grasp Blodgett's hand, to beg his pardon. Instead he tried to find ways of avoiding the generous gift.
"We can't settle anything yet. A dozen circumstances may arise. The war may end——"
"When you go, George," Blodgett said, wistfully.
And George knew that in the end he couldn't refuse without disclosing everything; that his partners wouldn't let him. It added strangely enough to his discomfort that he should leave the disappointed man with a confident feeling that he need make no move to see Sylvia before going to Plattsburgh. In any case, the camp ought to be over before the fifteenth of August.
His partners were pleased enough by his recital, and determined to accept Blodgett's offer.
"He's the most generous soul that ever lived," Goodhue said, warmly.