“Good-bye!” said Boy carelessly, without raising his cap, and in another moment he had gone.
Major Desmond paused a moment, staring after him. Then he shook his head. Then he took out his cigar-case, chose a cigar, and lit it. Then he walked slowly and thoughtfully to his club, where he found his old friend ‘Fitz,’ “of the rueful countenance,” in a favourite arm-chair near the window reading the paper.
“Hullo!” said that gentleman.
“Hullo!” responded the Major dismally.
“Where have you been?” inquired ‘Fitz’—“You look as if you were down on your luck!”
“Do I?” and Major Desmond threw himself into the opposite chair. “It is not that. I’ve had a depressing companion.”
“Oh!” said Fitz. “Where did you pick him up? Who was he?”
“Boy,” said the Major, with a sort of grunt that was half a groan—“at least, not Boy, but the young chap that used to be Boy.”
Fitz raised his melancholy blue eyes with a bewildered expression.
“Do you mean the little fellow Miss Leslie was so fond of?”