“I wonder when he will return?” dreamily said Johnstone, as if the subject was growing annoying in its bold directness.
“I believe that he has a long leave—a furlough of a year,” lightly answered the Major. “In fact, I am to carry on some official matters for him in his absence, but he is wary and non-committal.”
“What is his English address?” abruptly said Johnstone, as they bowed formally over their glasses.
“I do not know,” frankly returned Hawke. “I am to send all reports to headquarters in Calcutta.”
“Are you going down there soon?” asked the old nabob, with a growing uneasiness.
“Not unless I am sent for by the Viceroy,” quietly said the Major, with a listless air, gazing around admiringly on the magnificence of the apartment.
“I will give you a letter to my nephew, Douglas Fraser, when you do go,” said Johnstone. “He is a fine youngster, and he will have charge of all my Indian affairs, if I go home. He is in the P. and O. office. I would like you to know him.”
“I did not know that you had any family connection here,” replied the Major with a start of innocent surprise.
“Only this boy,” hastily replied the incipient baronet, “and my daughter. She is, however, a mere child—a mere child. I have seen the leaves of the family tree wither and drop off one by one.” The host then stiffly rose, and formally said, “Let us go in!”
“You are good for a score of years yet,” jovially remarked Major Hawke, as he gazed at the well-preserved outer man of his uneasy entertainer. “The harpoon is deeply fixed in the old whale,” mused Hawke, as he followed Hugh Johnstone. “He begins to flounder now.”