"I tell you what we'll do, you children and I: I'll order out the car--I still keep one and a chauffeur so that with it I can bring the wounded back to Paris--and we will go out to the aviation camp and see Philippe and ask him to the wedding. You would like to see the camp, eh?"
"Above all things!" exclaimed Kent and Judy in chorus.
The broad grassy field, bordered by houses, sheds and workshops, presented a busy scene as the Ochtè car drove up. Biplanes were parked to one side like so many automobiles at a reception in a city, or buggies at a county seat on court day in an American town. The field was swarming with men, all eagerly watching a tiny speck off in the blue sky in the direction of the trenches where the French had called a halt on the Germans' insolent and triumphant march to Paris.
No more attempt was made to stop the car of Madame the Marquise from coming into the aviation camp than there would have been had she been Joffre himself.
"They know me very well," she said in answer to Kent's inquiry as to this phenomenon, as he well knew they were very strict about visitors in camp. "I am ever a welcome guest here, not only because they know I love them, but because of something I bring." She pointed to a great hamper of goodies packed in by the chauffeur.
The car was surrounded by eager and courteous young aviators and soldiers, and Kent and Judy well knew it was not all for the _gateaux_ that the Marquise was so beloved. Philippe was summoned and clasped in his mother's arms. Her heart cried out that every time might be the last.
The Marquise was changed but her son even more so. His dilettantish manner was gone for good, as was also his foppish beard. His face, clean shaven except for a small moustache, was brown and lean; his mouth had taken on purpose; his eyes were no longer merely beautiful but now had depth of expression and a look of pity, as though he had seen much sorrow.
He was greatly pleased to see his cousin Kent and also Miss Kean, who, of course, he thought had gone back to America long ago. He remembered Judy always as the young lady he came so near loving. Indeed, he would have addressed her when Molly Brown had refused him, had he not been made to understand by his fair cousin how important it was to love with one's whole soul if married happiness was to be expected. He had, after that, gone very slowly in possible courtships. Molly's friend, Frances Andrews, had almost been his choice, but there was something of fineness lacking in her that deterred him in time, and he was in a measure relieved when that dashing young woman proceeded to marry an impoverished Italian prince. His mother was relieved beyond measure at what she could not but look on as her Philippe's escape. In fact, she had never seen but one girl she thought would be just right for her beloved son and that was Molly Brown.