Just as she had gone up stairs, the front door opened to admit Bobus.
“Oh, you are here!” was his salutation. “So you have done for yourself?”
“How do you know?”
“Your colonel wrote to my uncle. He was at the dinner, and made me come back with him to ask if I knew about it.”
“How does he take it?”
“He will probably fall on you, as he did on me to-night, calling it all my fault.”
“As how?”
“For looking out for myself. For my part, I had thought it praiseworthy, but he says none of the rest of us care a rush for my mother, and so the only one of us good for anything has to be the victim. But don’t plume yourself. You’ll be the scum of the earth when he has you before him. Poor old boy, it is a sore business to him, and it doesn’t improve his temper. I believe this place is a greater loss to him than to my mother. What are your plans?”
“Rotifer, as before.”
“Chacun a son gout,” said Bobus, shrugging his shoulders.