A SON AT THE FRONT
of course. You must admit I've always respected your feeling. . . "
He acknowledged awkwardly: "Yes."
"Well, then—won't you see that this situation is different, terribly different, and that we ought all to work together? If Anderson's influence can be of use. . . "
"Anderson's influence———" Campton's gorge rose against the phrase! It was always Anderson's influence that had been invoked—and none knew better than Campton himself how justly—when the boy's future was under discussion. But in this particular case the suggestion was intolerable.
"Of course," he interrupted drily. "But, as it happens, I think I can attend to this job myself."
She looked down at her huge rings, hesitated visibly, and then flung tact to the winds. "What makes you think so? You don't know the right sort of people."
It was a long time since she had thrown that at him: not since the troubled days of their marriage, when it had been the cruellest taunt she could think of. Now it struck him simply as a particularly unpalatable truth. No, he didn't know "the right sort of people" . . . unless, for instance, among his new patrons, such a man as Jorgenstein answered to the description. But, if there were war, on what side would a cosmopolitan like Jorgenstein turn out to be?
"Anderson, you see," she persisted, losing sight of
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