Page:A Son at the Front (1923) Wharton.djvu/311

face, even aged and humanized by grief, was still a mere mask to him. He could never tell what form her thoughts about George might be taking.

Mr. Brant, on his wife's arrival, had judged it discreet to efface himself. Campton hunted for him in vain in the park, and under the cloister; he remained invisible till they met at the early dinner which they shared with the staff. But the meal did not last long, and when it was over, and nurses and doctors scattered, Mr. Brant again slipped away, leaving his wife and Campton alone.

Campton glanced after him, surprised. "Why does he go?"

Mrs. Brant pursed her lips, evidently as much surprised by his question as he by her husband's withdrawal.

"I suppose he's going to bed—to be ready for his early start to-morrow."

"A start?"

She stared. "He's going back to Paris."

Campton was genuinely astonished. "Is he? I'm sorry."

"Oh———" She seemed unprepared for this. "After all, you must see—we can't very well. . . all three of us . . . especially with these nuns. . ."

"Oh, if it's only that———"

She did not take this up, and one of their usual silences followed. Campton was thinking that it was