A SON AT THE FRONT
presence of mind under the shock of her agitation. “What made you think of George?”
“Your—your face,” she stammered, sitting down again. “So absurd of me. . . But you looked. . . A seat for monsieur, Jeanne,” she cried over her shoulder to the pantry.
“Ah—my face? Yes, I suppose so. Benny Upsher has disappeared—I’ve just had to break it to Mayhew.”
“Oh, that poor young Upsher? How dreadful!” Her own face grew instantly serene. “I’m so sorry-—so very sorry. . . Yes, yes, you shall lunch with me—I know there’s another cutlet,” she insisted.
He shook his head. “I couldn’t.”
“Well, then, I’ve finished.” She led the way into the drawing-room. There it was her turn to face the light, and he saw that her own features were as per¬ turbed as she had apparently discovered his to be.
“Poor Benny, poor boy !” she repeated, in the happy voice she might have had if she had been congratulat¬ ing Campton on the lad’s escape. He saw that she was still thinking not of Upsher but of George, and her inability to fit her intonation to her words betrayed the violence of her relief. But why had she imagined George to be in danger?
Campton recounted the scene at which he had just assisted, and while she continued to murmur her sym¬ pathy he asked abruptly: “Why on earth should you have been afraid for George ? ”
[ narị abụọ na iri]
