Edith Wharton

A Son at the Front Edith Wharton

"But even if they do mobilise: mobilisation is not war-is it?" Mrs. Anderson Brant repeatedacross the teacups. Campton dragged himself up from the deep armchair he had inadvertently chosen. To escapefrom his hostess's troubled eyes he limped across to the window and stood gazing out at the thickturf and brilliant flower-borders of the garden which was so unlike his own. After a moment heturned and glanced about him, catching the reflection of his heavy figure in a mirror dividing twogarlanded panels. He had not entered Mrs. Brant's drawing-room for nearly ten years; not since theperiod of the interminable discussions about the choice of a school for George; and in spite of thefar graver preoccupations that now weighed on him, and of the huge menace with which the wholeworld was echoing, he paused for an instant to consider the contrast between his clumsy person andthat expensive and irreproachable room."You've taken away Beausite's portrait of you," he said abruptly, looking up at the chimney-panel, which was filled with the blue and umber bloom of a Fragonard landscape. A full-length of Mrs. Anderson Brant by Beausite had been one of Mr. Brant's wedding-presentsto his bride; a Beausite portrait, at that time, was as much a part of such marriages as pearls andsables."Yes. Anderson thought ... the dress had grown so dreadfully old-fashioned," she explainedindifferently; and went on again: "You think it's not war: don't you?"What was the use of telling her what he thought? For years and years he had not done that-about anything. But suddenly, now, a stringent necessity had drawn them together, confrontingthem like any two plain people caught in a common danger-like husband and wife, for example!"It is war, this time, I believe," he said