“I suppose the Army is teaching us manners,” said Godfrey.
“Then the war is of some good, after all,” commented Baltazar. “And this reversion to an ancient code provides you with a mode of address which saves you, my young friend, from considerable embarrassment.”
Godfrey, quick and sensitive, glanced for an instant at the firm lips drawn down in a humorous smile and at the kindly indulgence in the keen eyes, and then broke into a laugh.
“Let us be grateful, sir, to the Chinoiserie of the eighteenth century.”
Baltazar folded his arms and contemplated his son admiringly.
“Do you know, I couldn’t have got out of it like that if I had thought for a thousand years. Let us sit down.” And when they had settled themselves by the wall on the fringe of the crowded lounge, he went on: “You young men are not the least problem which a Cyrano dropped from the peaceful moon like myself has to solve.”
“I’m afraid we don’t quite know what we’re playing at ourselves,” said Godfrey.
Again Baltazar felt pleased with the boy’s reply. An understanding fellow; one who could get to the thought behind a few words.
“I wish to God I had known you all your life,” said he.
At the appeal to sentiment, Godfrey shied like a horse.