Quin | Page 6

Papa Claude is?" Rose demanded,
dexterously ladling out steaming Welsh rabbit on to slices of crisp
brown toast.
"He is here, mes enfants, he is here!" cried a joyous voice from the hall,
followed by a presence at once so exuberant and so impressive that
Quin stared in amazement.
"This is Quinby Graham, grandfather," said Cass, by way of
introduction.
The dressy old gentleman with the flowing white locks and the white
rose in his buttonhole bore down upon Quin and enveloped his hand in
both his own.
"I welcome you for Cassius' sake and for your own!" he declared with
such effusion that Quin was visibly embarrassed. "My grandson has
told me of your long siege in the hospital, of your noble service to your
country, of your gallant conduct at----"
"Sit down, Papa Claude, and finish your oration after supper," cried
Rose; "the rabbit won't wait on anybody."
Thus cut short, Mr. Martel took his seat and, nothing daunted, helped
himself bountifully to everything within reach.
"I am a gourmet, Sergeant Graham, but not a gourmand. Edwin Booth
used to say----"
"Sir?" answered Edwin Booth's namesake from the kitchen, where he
had been dispatched for more bread.
"No, no, my son, I was referring to----"
But Papa Claude, as usual, did not get to finish the sentence. The
advent of the next-door neighbor, who had been invited and then

forgotten, caused great amusement owing to the fact that there was no
more supper left.
"Give her some bread and jam, Myrna," said Rose; "and if the jam is
out, bring the brown sugar. You don't mind, do you, Fan?"
Fan, an amiable blonde person who was going to be fat at forty,
declared that she didn't want a thing to eat, honestly she didn't, and that
besides she adored bread and brown sugar.
"We won't stop to wash up," said Rose; "Myrna will have loads of time
to do it in the morning, because she doesn't have to go to school. We'll
just clear the table and let the dishes stand."
"We are incorrigible Bohemians, as you observe," said Mr. Martel to
Quin, with a deprecating arching of his fine brows. "We lay too little
stress, I fear, on the conventions. But the exigencies of the dramatic
profession--of which, you doubtless know, I have been a member for
the past forty years----"
"Take him in the sitting-room, Mr. Graham," urged Rose; "I'll bring
your coffee in there."
Without apparently being conscious of the fact, Mr. Martel, still
discoursing in rounded periods, was transferred to the big chair beside
the lamp, while Quin took up his stand on the hearth-rug and looked
about him.
Such a jumble of a room as it was! Odds and ends of furniture, the
survival of various household wrecks; chipped bric-à-brac; a rug from
which the pattern had long ago vanished; an old couch piled with
shabby cushions; a piano with scattered music sheets. On the walls,
from ceiling to foot-board, hung faded photographs of actors and
actresses, most of them with bold inscriptions dashed across their
corners in which the donors invariably expressed their friendship,
affection, or if the chirography was feminine their devoted love, for
"dear Claude Martel." Over the mantel was a portrait of dear Claude
himself, taken in the rôle 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