“Speak as his grandmother, for all I care—but speak somewhere else. I have definitely decided what to do about Major Crespin, and I wish to catch the post. I intend to catch it,” and the Colonel took up his pen significantly, and pulled towards him an unfinished letter that the gong in the hall had interrupted.
“You promised me two minutes,” Traherne reminded him.
“Then I’ll give them to you,” the soldier snapped, “but I will not hear one word about Crespin.”
“He can’t help it, sir, it is disease.”
“All the more reason to boot him out of the service. A soldier can help doing any damned thing that is unsoldierly. If he can’t—he’s no soldier.”
“He can’t help it—alone. I want you to let me help him to help it. I want you to give him a chance, and to give me a chance. I may fail: let me try though. There is a great deal that is fine in Tony Crespin.”
“Don’t you suppose I know that?” the other growled. “I’m his colonel!”
“And because you are, sir, you will help me to help him.”
“I wish to God I could,” Agnew groaned. “But he’s made that impossible this time. Don’t say any more, Traherne. I know what you want. You want me—heaven knows what’s it to you—to let him send in his papers. It can’t be done. I have my duty to do. I respect my commission, and the uniform I’ve the honor to wear, if that poor devil doesn’t. And Major Crespin is going to be dismissed from the service. He must.”
“Let him send in his papers?” Traherne ignored the worse that had followed. “I want more than that, sir!”