“Well, how did he take it,—did he make any remark?”
“A half smile, sir; nothing more.”
“But said nothing?”
“Not a word, sir.”
Linton arose and walked the room in deep meditation; at last he said,—
“You had better let him have those letters we held back the last two days, to-day. He'll not think deeply over his losses on the Derby while dwelling on this missing letter.”
“I don't suspect his losses, sir, will cause much uneasiness on any score; money occupies very little of his thoughts.”
“True; but here the sum is a very heavy one. I made the book myself, and stood to win thirty thousand pounds; but, no matter,—it can't be helped now,—better luck another time. Now, another point. It strikes me of late that he seems bored somewhat by the kind of life he is leading, and that these carouses at the messes are becoming just as distasteful to him as the heavy dinner-parties with the Dean and the rest of them. Is that your opinion?”
“Perfectly, sir. He even said as much to me t'other evening, when he came back from a late supper. He is always wishing for the yacht to come over,—speaks every now and then of taking a run over to London and Paris; in fact, sir, he is bored here. There is no disguising it.”
“I feared as much, George; I suspected, many a day ago, he would not be long satisfied with the provincial boards. But this must not be; once away from Dublin, he is lost to us forever. I know, and so do you know, the hands he would fall into in town. Better let him get back to his old prairie haunts, for a while, than that.”