He was preparing, one morning, to leave the melancholy¹ place, when the bell rang and his bonne let her in. Her dress was less frivolous² than at Mrs. Talkett’s, and she wore a densely³ patterned veil, like the ladies in cinema plays when they visit their seducers or their accomplices⁴.

 

Through the veil she looked at him agitatedly⁵, and said: “George is not at Sainte Menehould.”

 

He stared.

 

“No. Anderson was there the day before yesterday.”

 

“Brant? At Sainte Menehould?” Campton felt the blood rush to his temples. What! He, the boy’s father, had not so much as dared to ask for the almost unattainable permission to go into the war-zone; and this other man, who was nothing to George, absolutely nothing, who had no right whatever to ask for leave to visit him, had somehow obtained the priceless favour, and instead of passing it on, instead of offering at least to share it with the boy’s father, had sneaked⁶ off secretly to feast on the other’s lawful⁷ privilege!

 

“How the devil——?” Campton burst out.

 

“Oh, he got a Red Cross mission; it was arranged very suddenly—through a friend....”

 

“Yes—well?” Campton stammered⁸, sitting down lest 239his legs should fail him, and signing to her to take a chair.

 

“Well—he was not there!” she repeated excitedly. “It’s what we might have known—since he’s changed his address.”

 

“Then he didn’t see him?” Campton interrupted, the

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