A Son at the Front by Edith Wharton

These thoughts continued to weigh on Campton; to shake them off he decided, with one of his habitual quick jerks of resolution, to get back to work. He knew that George would approve, and would perhaps be oftener with him if he had something interesting on his easel. Sir Cyril Jorgenstein had suggested that he would like to have his portrait finished-with the Legion of Honour added to his lapel, no doubt. And Harvey Mayhew, rosy and embarrassed, had dropped in to hint that, if Campton could find time to do a charcoal head-oh, just one of those brilliant sketches of his-of the young musical genius in whose career their friend Mme. de Dolmetsch was so much interested. But Campton had cut them both short. He was not working-he had no plans for the present. And in truth he had not thought even of attempting a portrait of George. The impulse had come to him, once, as he sat by the boy's bed; but the face was too incomprehensible. He should have to learn and unlearn too many things first --

At last, one day, it occurred to him to make a study of Mme. Lebel. He saw _her_ in charcoal: her simple unquestioning anguish had turned her old face to sculpture. Campton set his canvas on the easel, and started to shout for her down the stairs; but as he opened the door he found himself face to face with Mrs. Talkett.

"Oh," she began at once, in her breathless way, "you're here? The old woman downstairs wasn't sure-and I couldn't leave all this money with her, could I?"

"Money? What money? " he echoed.

She was very simply dressed, and a veil, drooping low from her hat-brim, gave to her over-eager face a shadowy youthful calm.

"I _may_ come in? " she questioned, almost timidly; and as Campton let her pass she added: "The money from the concert, of course-heaps and heaps of it! I'd no idea we'd made so much. And I wanted to give it to you myself."

She shook a bulging bag out of her immense muff, while Campton continued to stare at her.

"I didn't know you went out so early," he finally stammered, trying to push a newspaper over the disordered remains of his breakfast.

She lifted interrogative eyebrows. "That means that I'm in the way?"

"No. But why did you bring that money here?"

She looked surprised. "Why not? Aren't you the head-the real head of the committee? And wasn't the concert given in my house? " Her eyes rested on him with renewed timidity. "Is it-disagreeable to you to see me? " she asked.

"Disagreeable? My dear child, no. " He paused, increasingly embarrassed. What did she expect him to say next? To thank her for having sent him the orderly's letter? It seemed to him impossible to plunge into the subject uninvited. Surely it was for her to give him the opening, if she wished to.

"Well, no! " she broke out. "I've never once pretended to you, have I? The money's a pretext. I wanted to see you-here, alone, with no one to disturb us."

Campton felt a confused stirring of relief and fear. All his old dread of scenes, commotions, disturbing emergencies-of anything that should upset his perpetually vibrating balance-was blent with the passionate desire to hear what his visitor had to say.

"You-it was good of you to think of sending us that letter," he faltered.

She frowned in her anxious way and looked away from him. "Afterward I was afraid you'd be angry."

"Angry? How could I? " He groped for a word. "Surprised-yes. I knew nothing. nothing about you and."

"Not even that it was I who bought the sketch of him-the one that Léonce Black sold for you last year?"

The blood rushed to Campton's face. Suddenly he felt himself trapped and betrayed. "You-_you_? You've got that sketch? " The thought was somehow intolerable to him.

"Ah, now you _are_ angry," Mrs. Talkett murmured.