l."
Over the mantel was a portrait of dear Claude himself, taken in the role
of Mark Antony, and making rather a good job of it, on the whole, with
his fine Roman profile and massive brow.

It was all shabby and dusty and untidy; but to Quinby Graham, standing on
the hearth-rug and trying to handle his small coffee-cup as if he were
used to it, the room was completely satisfying. There was a cozy warmth
and mellowness about it, a kindly atmosphere of fellowship, a sense of
intimate human relations, that brought a lump into his throat. He had
almost forgotten that things could be like this!

So absorbed was he in his surroundings, and in the imposing old actor
encompassed by the galaxy of pictured notables, that he lost the thread
of Mr. Martel's discourse until he heard him asking:

"What is the present? A clamor of the senses, a roar that deafens us to
the music of life. I dwell in the past and in the future, Sergeant
Graham--the dear reminiscent past and the glorious unborn future. And
that reminds me that Cassius tells me that you are both about to receive
your discharge from the army and are ready for the next great adventure.
May I ask what yours is to be? A return, perhaps, to your native city?"

"My native city happens to be a river," said Quin. "I was born on a
house-boat going up the Yangtse-Kiang."

"Indeed!" cried Mr. Martel with interest. "What a romantic beginning! And
your family?"

"Haven't got any. You see, sir," said Quin, expanding under the
flattering attention of his host, "my people were all missionaries. Most
of them died off before I was fourteen, and I was shipped back to America
to go to school. I didn't hold out very long, though. After two years in
high school I ran away and joined the navy."

"And since then you have been a soldier of fortune, eh? No cares, no
responsibilities. Free to roam the wide world in search of adventure."

Quin studied the end of his cigarette.

"That ain't so good as it sounds," he said. "Sometimes I think I'd
amounted to more if I had somebody that belonged to me."

"Isn't it rather early in the season for a young man's fancy to be
lightly turning----"

The quotation was lost upon Quin, but the twinkle in the speaker's
expressive eye was not.

"I didn't mean that," he laughingly protested; "I mean a mother or a
sister or somebody like that, who would be a kind of anchor. Take Cass,
for instance; he's steady as a rock."

"Ah! Cassius! One in ten thous