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. Insensibly he
quickened his pace.

"But I can't go myself, so why can't I send a proxy?"

Clayton asked, smiling. "I've an idea I'd be well represented."

"That's a fine way to look at it, but I can't do it. I've saved
something, not much, but it will do for a year or two. I'm glad you made
the offer, though. It was like you, and--it showed me the way. I can't
let any man, or any group of men, finance my going."