“Yes—in America!” shouted Boylston; and Mr. Talkett’s tallowy cheeks turned pink.
“George knows how I feel about these things,” he stammered.
George still laughed in his remote impartial way, and Boylston asked with a grin: “Why don’t you get yourself naturalized—a neutral?”
Mr. Talkett’s pinkness deepened. “I have lived too much among Artists——” he began; and George interrupted gaily: “There’s a lot to be said on Talkett’s side too. Going, Roger? Well, I shall be able to look in on you now in a few days. Remember me to Madge. Goodbye.”
Boylston rose also, and Campton remained alone with his son.
“Remember me to Madge!” That was the way in which the modern young man spoke of his beloved to his beloved’s proprietor. There had not been a shadow of constraint in George’s tone; and now, glancing at the door which had closed on Mr. Talkett, he merely said, as if apostrophizing the latter’s neat back: “Poor devil! He’s torn to pieces with it.”
“Why, with Boylston’s Preparedness. Wanting to do the proper thing—and never before having had to decide between anything more vital than straight or turned-down collars. It’s playing the very deuce with him.”
His eyes grew thoughtful. Was he going to pronounce Mrs. Talkett’s name—at last? But no; he wandered back to her husband. “Poor little ass! Of course he’ll decide against.” He shrugged his shoulders. “And Boylston’s just as badly torn in the other direction.”
“Yes. Knowing that he wouldn’t be taken himself, on account of his bad heart and his blind eyes, and wondering if, in spite of his disabilities, he’s got the right to preach to all these young chaps here who hang on his words like the gospel. One of them taunted him with it the other day.”
“Yes. And ever since, of course, Boylston’s been twice as fierce, and overworking himself to calm his frenzy. The men who can’t go are all like that, when they know it’s their proper work. It isn’t everybody’s billet out there—I’ve learnt that since I’ve had a look at it—but it would be Boylston’s if he had the health, and he knows it, and that’s what drives him wild.” George looked at his father with a smile. “You don’t know how I thank my stars that there weren’t any ‘problems’ for me, but just a plain job that picked me up by the collar, and dropped me down where I belonged.” He reached for another cigarette. “Old Adele’s coming presently. Do you suppose we could rake up some fresh tea?” he asked.