“As how?”
“Young Conway is at this very moment plotting how she may be domesticated with his mother, somewhere in Wales, I believe.”
“If he's in love with her, it will be a bad business,” said Driscoll. “She does be reading and writing, too, from morning till night. There's no labor nor fatigue she's not equal to, and all the searches and inquiries that weary others she'd go into out of pure amusement. Now, if she was ever to be with his mother, and heard the old woman talk about family history, she 'd be at it hard and fast next morning.”
“There is no need she should go there.”
“No. But she must n't go,—must never see her.”
“I think I can provide for that. It will be somewhat more difficult to take him out of the way for the present. I wish he were back in the Crimea.”
“He might get killed—”
“Ay, but his claim would not die. Look here, Driscoll,” said he, slowly; “I ventured to tell him this morning that I would assist him with my influence if he wishes to re-enter the service as an officer, and he resented the offer at once as a liberty. Now, it might be managed in another way. Leave me to think it over, and perhaps I can hit upon the expedient. The Attorney-General is to report upon the claims to me to-morrow, next day I'm to see Conway himself, and then you shall learn all.”
“I don't like all these delays,” began Driscoll; but at a look from Dunn he stopped, and held down his head, half angry, half abashed.
“You advance small loans of money on approved security, Driscoll,” said Dunn, with a dry expression of the mouth. “Perhaps some of these mornings you may be applied to for a few hundreds by a young fellow wishing to purchase his commission,—you understand me?”