"The deuce!" he heard the captain whisper to Monkton; "we can't permit this mere boy to treat us to wine." "_Two_ bottles, and be sharp, waiter," said Quentin, whose pride the well-meaning officer had piqued. "He is a regular trump," said Monkton, adjusting his napkin. "A gentleman--a phrase I prefer," added Warriston in the same undertone, as he proceeded to slice down a gallant capon; for he could perceive at once, by Quentin's bearing at the dinner-table--the truest and best test--that he knew all its etiquette and had been used to good society. As the wine circulated and reserve thawed (not that there was much of it, certainly, in the present quartet) Quentin asked Monkton if he remembered an officer named Girvan in his corps. "Girvan--Girvan--remember him?--yes; an old quartermaster--rose from the ranks, didn't he?" "Yes." "He left us on a half-pay commission in the year I joined, during Lord Rohallion's lieutenant-colonelcy. (By-the-bye, his lordship lives somewhere hereabout; should leave our cards for him, but have no time.) Girvan was a queer old fellow, who always wore a yellow wig--do you know him?" "Intimately. I have known him from my childhood," said Quentin, his eyes sparkling and heart swelling with pleasure, that he could speak of some one at home. "Any relation of yours?" asked Monkton; and so weak is human nature that Quentin blushed that any one should think he was so, and then blushed deeper still that he was ashamed of his true and sterling old friend. "Perhaps he is your father?" suggested the ensign, mischievously. "Sir, I said my name is Kennedy; my father was a captain of the Scots Brigade in the French service." "Ah--indeed!" said Warriston, becoming suddenly interested; "is he still alive?" "Alas, sir, no!" "Killed in action, likely?" "He was drowned at sea, after an engagement with a French ship off the mouth of the Clyde." "And where have you come from, that you travel thus alone?" "I cannot say." "Then where are you going to?" asked the ensign. "I don't know," replied Quentin, sadly. "Can't say and don't know!" said the captain of the Scots Brigade; "then my advice would be to stay where you are." "That is not possible." "You are an odd fellow--quite an enigma," said Monkton, laughing. "Perhaps I am," replied poor Quentin, with a sickly smile. "Do you know, my young friend, that I have been observing you closely for some time (pardon me saying so), but with something of friendly interest, and I perceive an air of dejection about you that shows there is something wrong--a screw loose somewhere," said Captain Warriston, kindly. "Wrong?" repeated Quentin, flushing, and in doubt how to take the remark. "Yes; I have seen so much of the world that I can read a man's face like an open book." "And the reading of mine----" "Is satisfactory; but there is something in your eyes that tells me you are in a scrape somehow--at home, perhaps?"