If I had a son to give it would be different."
Clayton looked straight ahead. He knew that the rector had, for the
moment, forgotten that he had a son to give and that he had not yet
given.
"Why don't you accept a small allowance?" he inquired quietly. "Or,
better still, why don't you let me know how much it will take and
let me do it? I'd like to feel that I was represented in France
- by you," he added.
And suddenly the rector remembered. He was most uncomfortable, and
very flushed.
"Thanks. I can't let you do that, of course."
"Why not?"
"Because, hang it all, Clayton, I'm not a parasite. I took the car,
because it enabled me to do my parish work better. But I'm not
going to run off to war and let you keep my family."
Clayton glanced at him, at his fine erect old figure, his warmly
flushed face. War did strange things. There was a new light in the
rector's once worldly if kindly eyes. He had the strained look of a
man who sees great things, as yet far away, and who would hasten
toward them.
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