“Yes,” still more defiantly. “She asked for it.”
“You egregious jackass?”
“What for?” said the boy, indignantly. “If a party asks for the paper, ain’t I to sell it?” He evidently thought his superior was drunk.
“Look at that, Jones,” said the latter, tapping the telegraphic slip impressively with his pen. “What’s that about—eh?”
“I see it. It’s about an officer killed at the front. Why, that’s just the very thing the lady wanted to see,” replied the boy, brightening up.
“Yes. Quite so, you infernal young fool. She’s his sweetheart.”
“O Lord!” And the boy, dropping the paper he was folding, stood gazing at his superior the very picture of open-mouthed horror.
“Yes, it is ‘Lord,’” said the latter, with a gloomy shake of the head. “Well, the mischief’s done now, anyway;” and he retired into his den with a feeling of intense and real pity for the beautiful, sad-looking girl who had so often called at the office for telegrams from the seat of war. The boy was a new hand, and had not known who she was.
How Lilian got home was a mystery. She just remembered staggering in at the doorway, and then nothing more until she awoke to find herself upon her bed with Annie Payne bathing her forehead. No need had there been to ask what the matter was—the printed slip which she held clutched in her hand spoke for itself.