“You gave him three days' leave yesterday, sir. He's gone down to that fishing-village where he went before.”
“Confound the place! Send for him at once—telegraph. No—let us see—his leave is up to-morrow?”
“The next day at ten he was to report.”
“His father is ill,—an attack of gout,” muttered the Colonel, to give some color to his agitated manner. “But it is better, perhaps, not to alarm him. The seizure seems passing off.”
“He said something about asking for a longer term; he wants a fortnight, I think. The season is just beginning now.”
“He shall not have it, sir. Take good care to warn him not to apply. It will breed discontent in the regiment to see a young fellow who has not been a year with us obtain a leave every ten or fifteen days.”
“If it were any other than Trafford, there would be plenty of grumbling. But he is such a favorite!”
“I don't know that a worse accident could befall any man. Many a fine fellow has been taught selfishness by the over-estimate others have formed of him. See that you keep him to his duty, and that he is to look for no favoritism.”
The Colonel did not well know why he said this, nor did he stop to think what might come of it. It smacked, to his mind, however, of something prompt, active, and energetic.
His next move was to write a short note to Lady Trafford, acknowledging hers, and saying that, Lionel being absent,—he did not add where,—nothing could be done till he should see him. “To-morrow—next day at farthest—I will report progress. I cannot believe the case to be so serious as you suppose; at all events, count upon me.”