Mrs. Quintan was alive to the
value of this attached follower, who might be trusted to guard her
son in the perils that lay before him. She treated him as a sort
of combination of valet, nurse, and poor relation, asking him all
sorts of intimate questions about Howard's socks and
underclothing, and holding him altogether responsible for the
boy's welfare. Her tone was one of anxious patronage, touching at
times on a deeper emotion when she often broke down and cried. The
quartermaster was greatly moved by her trust in him. The tears
would come to his own eyes, and he would try in his clumsy way to
comfort her, promising that, so far as it lay with him, Howard
should return safe and sound. In his self-abnegation it never
occurred to him that his own life was as valuable as Howard
Quintan's. He acquiesced in the understanding that it was his
business to get Howard through the war unscratched, at whatever
risk or jeopardy to himself.
Those were wonderful days for him. To be an intimate of that
splendid household, to drive behind spanking bays with Miss
Latimer by his side, to take tea at the Waldorf with her and other
semi-divine beings--what a dazzling experience for the ex-clerk,
whose lines so recently had lain in such different places.
Innately a gentleman, he bore himself with dignity in this new
position, with a fine simplicity and self-effacement that was not
lost on some of his friends. His respect for them all was
unbounded.
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