Page:A Son at the Front (1923) Wharton.djvu/332

on approaching his door a day or two later, to hear several voices in animated argument.

The voices (and this did surprise him) were all men's. In one he recognized Boy Is ton's deep round notes; but the answering voice, flat, toneless and yet eager, puzzled him with a sense of something familiar but forgotten. He opened the door, and saw, at the tea-tray between George and Boylston, the smoothly-brushed figure of Roger Talkett.

Campton had not seen Mrs. Talkett's husband for months, and in the interval so much had happened that the young man, always somewhat faintly-drawn, had become as dim as a daguerreotype held at the wrong angle.

The painter hung back, slightly embarrassed; but Mr. Talkett did not seem in the least disturbed by his appearance, or by the fact of himself being where he was. It was evident that, on whatever terms George might be with his wife, Mr. Talkett was determined to shed on him the same impartial beam as on all her other visitors.

His eye-glasses glinted blandly up at Campton. "Now I daresay I am subversive," he began, going on with what he had been saying, but in a tone intended to include the newcomer. "I don't say I'm not. We are a subversive lot at home, all of us—you must have noticed that, haven't you, Mr. Campton?"

Boylston emitted a faint growl. "What's that got to do with it?" he asked.