A SON AT THE FRONT
In the middle of the floor he paused and tapped a varnished boot-tip with his stick.
“Let’s see what you’ve done to Daisy Dolmetsch.”
“Oh, it’s been done for me—you’ll see!” Campton laughed. He was enjoying the sight of Dastrey and thinking that this visit was providentially timed to give him a chance of expatiating on his coming journey. In his rare moments of expansiveness he felt the need of some substitute for the background of domestic sympathy which, as a rule, would have simply bored or exasperated him; and at such times he could always talk to Dastrey.
The little man screwed up his eyes and continued to tap his varnished toes.
“But she’s magnificent. She’s seen the Medusa!”
Campton laughed again. “Just so. For days and days I’d been trying to do something with her; and suddenly the war-funk did it for me.”
“The war-funk?”
“Who’d have thought it? She’s frightened to death about Ladislas Isador—who is French, it turns out, and mobilisable. The poor soul thinks there’s going to be war!”
“Well, there is” said Dastrey.
The two men looked at each other: Campton amused, incredulous, a shade impatient at the perpetual recurrence of the same theme, and aware of presenting a
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