Among others, he knocked at the door of an elderly dowager named Osborn, who was very sympathetic with him in his misfortunes, and did her best to comfort him with afternoon tea and gossip.
The latter lasted a good deal longer than the former. One after another the major’s old friends were mentioned and discussed and talked about as only folk can be talked about over afternoon tea.
“By the way,” said the caller, “I hear poor Cruden didn’t leave much behind him after all. Is Mrs Cruden still at Garden Vale?”
“No, indeed,” said the lady; “it’s a sad story altogether. Mr Cruden left nothing behind him, and Garden Vale had to be sold, and the family went to London, so I was told, in very poor circumstances.”
“Bless me!” said the honest major, “haven’t you looked them up? Cruden was a good sort of a fellow, you know.”
“Well, I’ve always intended to try and find out where they are living, but really, major, you have no idea how one’s time gets filled up.”
“I’ve a very good idea,” said the major with a groan. “I have to sail in a week, and there’s not much spare time between now and then, I can tell you. Still, I’d like to call and pay my respects to Mrs Cruden if I knew where she lived.”
“I daresay you could find out. But I was going to say that only yesterday I saw something in the paper which will hardly make Mrs Cruden anxious to see any of her old friends at present. The eldest son, I fear, has turned out badly.”
“Who? young—what was his name?—Reginald? Can’t believe it. He always seemed one of the right sort. A bit of a prig perhaps, but straight enough. What has he been up to?”
“You’d better see for yourself, major,” said the lady, extracting a newspaper from a heap under the dinner-waggon. “He seems to have been mixed up in a rather discreditable affair, as far as I could make out, but I didn’t read the report through.”