Desmond stood beside the writing-table, where the green shade lay discarded; and a noticeable scar on his right cheek was all that now remained of the wound which had threatened such serious results. His whole attention was centred upon Rob, who pranced at his feet with ungainly caperings, flinging dignity to the winds, and testifying, with heart and voice and eloquent tail, to the joy that was in him.
Paul's sensitive soul revolted from the necessity of imparting ill news at such a moment; and it was Desmond who spoke first.
"Mackay's been here this minute making a final examination of my eyes. Gave me leave, thank God, to discard that abomination; and Rob hasn't left off congratulating me since I flung it on the table. The little beggar seems to understand what's happened just as well as I do." He turned on Wyndham with a short satisfied laugh. "By Jove, Paul, it's thundering good to look you squarely in the face again! But why,—what's the trouble, old man? Have you heard bad news?"
"Not very bad, but certainly—unpleasant."
"And you came to tell me?"
"Yes, I came to tell you."
Desmond motioned him to a chair; and, as he seated himself with unhurried deliberation, laid a sympathetic hand on his shoulder.
"What is it?" he asked. "The Regiment or yourself?"
"Neither."
"Well, then——?"