Пользователь - WORLD'S END

Rick paused. "And then?" said Lanny.

"Well, I knew I was going across in a week or so; and Nina - her name is Nina Putney - told me she wanted to have a baby. I mightn't come back - lots of the fellows have been downed on their first flight."

"I know," said Lanny.

"I said: 'What will you do, alone?' And she said: 'I know what I want. I can take care of it somehow.' She has a sister who's an interior decorator, and would take her in. You know people don't pay so much attention to illegitimacy in wartime; they make excuses. And Nina broke down - she said she had to have something to remember me by. I couldn't very well say no."

"Is she going to have it?"

"So she writes me."

"You married her before that?"

"I thought I ought to tell the pater; if he was going to have a grandchild, he'd want to be sure about it. He looked up the family and found out they were all right - I mean, what he calls all right-so then he said we ought to get married. So we got a special license and went over to the church, the night before I reported for duty."

"Oh, Rick, what a story! Do you think she's a girl you'll be happy with?"

"I suppose we've as good a chance as most couples. Nina's game, and says she'll never hold me to it. She swears she wasn't trying to rope me in, and if I ever say it, she'll drop me flat." The young flying officer smiled a rather wry smile.

"You're supposed to be something of a catch, aren't you, Rick - I mean from the English point of view?"

Rick could talk about the social position of the Codwilliger family, but not of the Pomeroy-Nielsons. "The pater says we'll lose The Reaches if they keep piling war taxes on him. And what price a baronet if you have to live in lodgings?"

VII

Lanny was excited, of course. He wanted to know about Nina, and what she looked like - Rick had a little picture, which showed a slender, birdlike person with an eager, intense expression. Lanny admired her, and Rick was pleased. Lanny asked what she was studying, and about her family - her father was a barrister, but not a successful one; she would be one of these new women who had careers of their own, kept their own names, and so on. None of this clinging sort.

Lanny said that his father was taking him to London soon. Could he meet her? Rick said: "Of course."

"Could I give her a present, do you suppose? Would she like some picture that we could pick up for her?"

"You'd better wait," laughed the other, "and see what happens to me. If I'm put out, you'd better give her a baby basket."

"I'll give her both!" Lanny had recently become aware of the fact that his father had a pile of money.

"No Caliph of Bagdad business!" countered his friend. "You pick out a book that may keep her from being lonely, and write something in it, so she can remember you when you marry an oil princess in Connecticut."

"There isn't any oil in Connecticut, Rick."

"Well, nutmegs then. Your father says it's called the Nutmeg State. You'll make a whole crop of new princesses out of this war. They'll be bored, and they'll be crazy about you because you speak French, and dance, and have culture - you'll rank with a marquis or a Russian grand duke in exile."

Lanny was amused by this picture of himself in New England. He wanted to say: "They'll find out that I'm a bastard." But his lips were sealed.

Half a day, a night, and another day; never had thirty hours moved with such speed! They went to the Comedie Franзaise, and sat in a box; they had a meal at midnight, and Robbie ordered an extra bottle of wine. They strolled on the boulevards in the morning, luxuriating in the sunshine, watching the crowds and gazing at the fine things for sale. Lanny bought a stock of chocolates, the one thing Rick admitted the chaps in the air force would appreciate. They picked up an old-fashioned open carriage with a bony but lively horse, and were driven about the Bois and the main boulevards, looking at historic buildings and remembering what they could of events. Rick knew a little about everything; he had all his old assurance, his worldly manner which impressed his younger friend so greatly.

Robbie came back to the hotel, feeling good, because Zaharoff's factotum had given way, and the other companies were giving way, and Robbie was collecting signatures on dotted lines. Lanny had to ask him not to be too exultant until Rick was gone. "You know how it is, he's giving his life, maybe, while we're making money."

"All right," said the salesman, with one of his chuckles. "I'll be good; but you tell Rick that if his old man wants to sell The Reaches, you'll buy it!" No use asking Robbie to shed any tears over the English aristocracy. They had had their day, and now the American businessmen were to have theirs. Gangway!

However, Robbie was very decent when the time for parting came. He had a big package delivered to Rick's room, and told him not to open it until he got back to camp. He told Lanny it contained cigarettes; the baronet's son would be the darling of the corps wing for a time. Robbie shook hands with him, and said "Cheerio," in the approved English fashion.

Lanny went to the train, and had tears in his eyes, he just couldn't help it. It would have been very bad form for Rick to have them; he said: "Thanks, old chap, you've been perfectly bully to me." And then: "Take care of yourself, and don't let the subs get you."

"Write me a post card every now and then," pleaded Lanny. "You know how it is, if I don't hear from you, I'll worry."

"Don't do that," said Rick. "Whatever comes, that's what comes." It was the nearest a modern man could approach to having a philosophy.

"Well, look out for the Fokkers - get them first!"

"Right-o!" The whistle blew, and Rick bolted, just in time for the train and for the honor of the Royal Flying Corps. Lanny stood, with tears flowing freely. "Good-by, Rick! Good-by!" His voice died into a sort of sob as the train moved on, and the face of Eric Vivian Pomeroy-Nielson disappeared, perhaps forever. That was the dreadful thing about wartime, you couldn't part from anybody without the thought: "I'll probably not see him again!"

VIII

The youth kept talking about this depressing idea until it worried his father. "You know, kid," he remarked, "you just can't be too soft in this world. It's painful to think of people getting killed, and I don't know the answer, except that maybe we put too much value on human life; we try to make more out of it than nature allows. This is certain, if you're too sensitive, and suffer too much, you wreck your own happiness, and maybe your health, and then what are you worth to yourself or anybody else?"

That was something to think about, and the youngster put his mind on it. What was the use of practicing the arts, of understanding and loving them, if you didn't dare let yourself feel? Manifestly, the purpose of art was to awaken feelings; but Robbie said you had to put them to sleep, or at any rate retire into a cave with them. Build yourself like a tortoise, with a hard shell around you, so that the world couldn't get hold of you to make you suffer!

Lanny voiced that, and the reply was: "Maybe it's a bad time for art right now. As I read history I see these periods come pretty frequently and last a long time, so you have to arm yourself somehow; unless, of course, you want to be a martyr, and die on a cross, or something like that. It makes good melodrama, or maybe great tragedy, but it's doggone uncomfortable while it's happening."

They were in their room, packing to leave for England; and Robbie said: "Sit down and let me tell you something I heard today." He lowered his voice, as if he thought that someone might be hiding in their room. Enemy ears are listening!

"Your friend is going off to fight the German Fokkers, and you're unhappy because they may get him. He's told you the Fokkers are fast and light, and that helps them, and may doom him. Do you know why they are so fast and light?'