The old British officer paused on the corner and stared at the carriages going by, beating his cane on the curb.
But he loved him, as he was, with all his faults; he loved him for his faults; and the whole thing was hard—harder than the charge at Inkerman.
Then he began to think of Cary, and the more he thought of Cary, the more resolved he became on the course to be pursued, and with the strengthening resolve the reproachful eyes retreated. The boy was ruining his life here. His career of which he had once thought so much had become dwarfed by his love for a woman. In India—but there, he could prove the stuff he was made of. An officer who has seen Indian service is always a bit better than he was before, or a bit worse. He was never quite the same again. And Cary—well, that girl was worth saving, even if the boy was his own.
The British officer turned into Grosvenor Square, and went up the broad steps of the house the Stewarts had rented for the past five years. He found the older Stewart in his library, as he knew he would, absorbed in the latest political news. The Scotchman looked up as he entered.
"Well, what do you want? I can see it is something by your face."
"Yes. I want you to use your influence with the Secretary and get Robert transferred to the regiment that sails for India next month."
"What?"
Trevelyan's father flung himself into one of the big chairs, leaned his elbow on the edge of the table and shaded his eyes, "It could be done—I suppose, without his knowing?"
"Why, y-e-s, but—" Stewart broke off doubtfully.
Trevelyan's father leaned forward, still shading his eyes and staring hard at his boots.