"I don't want
to. If I sat down and folded my hands these days I'd go crazy."
Carr grunted. For a minute neither spoke. Sophie lay back in her chair,
eyes half closed, fingers beating a slow rat-a-tat on the chair-arm.
"Have you seen Wes Thompson lately?" Carr inquired at last.
"I saw him this afternoon," Sophie replied.
"Did he tell you he was going overseas?"
"No." Sophie's interest seemed languid, judged by her tone.
"You saw him this afternoon, eh?" Carr drawled. "That's queer."
"What's queer?" Sophie demanded.
"That he would see you and not tell you where he was off to," Carr went
on. "I saw him away on the Limited at six-o'clock. He told me to tell
you good-by. He's gone to the front."
Sophie sat upright.
"How could he do that?" she said impatiently. "A man can't get into
uniform and leave for France on two hours' notice. He called here about
four. Don't be absurd."
"I don't see anything absurd except your incredulous way of taking it,"
Carr defended stoutly. "I tell you he's gone. I saw him take the train.
Who said anything about two hours' notice? I should imagine he has been
getting ready for some time. You know Wes Thompson well enough to know
that he doesn't chatter about what he's going to do.
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