A SON AT THE FRONT
done your share in one line, and that your business now is to do it in another."
The same detached smile again brushed George's lips. "But if I happen to have only one line?"
"Nonsense! You know they don't think that at the War Office."
"I don't believe the War Office will shut down if I leave it."
"What an argument! It sounds like———" Campton, breaking off on a sharp breath, closed his lids for a second. He had been gazing too steadily into George's eyes, and now at last he knew what that mysterious look in them meant. It was Benny Upsher's look, of course—inaccessible to reason, beyond reason, belonging to other spaces, other weights and measures, over the edge, somehow, of the tangible calculable world. . .
"A man can't do more than his duty: you've done that," he growled.
But George insisted with his gentle obstinacy: "You'll feel differently about it when America comes in."
Campton shook his head. "Never about your case."
"You will—when you see how we all feel. When we're all in it you wouldn't have me looking on, would you? And then there are my men—I've got to get back to my men."
"But you've no right to go now; no business," his father broke in violently. "Persuading that poor girl
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