“What regiment was it?” asked Leonore.
“Colonel Stirling’s,” said Vaughan, making a brilliant massé. “Fortunately it’s a Mick regiment, so we needn’t worry over who was killed.”
Leonore thought to herself: “You are as bad every bit as Podds!” Aloud she said, “Did it say who were killed?”
“No. The dispatch only said fourteen dead.”
“That was a beautiful shot,” said Leonore. “You ought to run the game out with that position. I think, papa, that I’ll go to bed. I find I’m a little tired. Good-night, Mr. Vaughan.” Leonore went upstairs, slowly, deep in thought. She did not ring for her maid. On the contrary she lay down on her bed in her dinner-gown, to its everlasting detriment. “I know he isn’t hurt,” she said, “because I should feel it. But I wish the telegram had said.” She hardly believed herself, apparently, for she buried her head in the pillow, and began to sob quietly. “If I only had said good-bye,” she moaned.
Early the next morning Watts found Leonore in the hall.
“How pale my Dot is!” he exclaimed.
“I didn’t sleep well,” said Leonore.
“Aren’t you going to ride with me?”
“No. I don’t feel like it this morning,” said Leonore.