Page:A Son at the Front (1923) Wharton.djvu/308

Well—for the moment, at any rate, Campton had the boy to himself. As he sat there, trying to picture the gradual resurrection of George's pre-war face out of the delicately pencilled white mask on the pillow, he noted the curious change of planes produced by suffering and emaciation, and the altered relation of lights and shadows. Materially speaking, the new George looked like the old one seen in the bowl of a spoon, and through blue spectacles: peaked, narrow, livid, with elongated nose and sunken eye-sockets. But these altered proportions were not what had really changed him. There was something in the curve of the mouth that fever and emaciation could not account for. In that new line, and in the look of his eyes—the look travelling slowly outward through a long blue tunnel, like some mysterious creature rising from the depths of the sea—that was where the new George lurked, the George to be watched and lain in wait for, patiently and slowly puzzled out. . .

He reopened his eyes.

"Adele too?"

Campton had learned to bridge over the spaces between the questions. "No; not this time. We tried, but it couldn't be managed. A little later, I hope———"

"She's all right?"

"Rather! Blooming."

"And Boylston?"

"Blooming too."