A SON AT THE FRONT
of Mme. Lebel. He saw her in charcoal: her simple unquestioning anguish had turned her old face to sculpture. Campton set his canvas on the easel, and started to shout for her down the stairs; but as he opened the door he found himself face to face with Mrs. Talkett.
"Oh," she began at once, in her breathless way, "you're here? The old woman downstairs wasn't sure—and I couldn't leave all this money with her, could I?"
"Money? What money?" he echoed.
She was very simply dressed, and a veil, drooping low from her hat-brim, gave to her over-eager face a shadowy youthful calm.
"I may come in?" she questioned, almost timidly; and as Campton let her pass she added: "The money from the concert, of course—heaps and heaps of it! I'd no idea we'd made so much. And I wanted to give it to you myself."
She shook a bulging bag out of her immense muff, while Campton continued to stare at her.
"I didn't know you went out so early," he finally stammered, trying to push a newspaper over the disordered remains of his breakfast.
She lifted interrogative eye-brows. "That means that I'm in the way?"
"No. But why did you bring that money here?"
She looked surprised. "Why not? Aren't you the head—the real head of the committee? And wasn't
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