“Why, Quincy, would you have refused a nomination?”
“Many are called, but few are chosen. I have never cherished any such ambition. I am not in love with politics and I detest the average politician. Our country produces few statesmen and it never will until the civil service law is made applicable to legislators and to high officials. We have much to learn from China in this respect.”
Telegrams had been sent to Aunt Ella and Mr. Wallingford apprising them of the happy reunion. From the latter came a message extending a hearty invitation to come to Vertano.
Young Quincy's wound though painful, and particularly uncomfortable, was not serious. Tom was his constant companion and attendant while Quincy passed nearly all his time with his wife. She improved rapidly and their departure was delayed only until young Quincy's wound was healed.
“You now have a longer name than ever,” his mother said to him one day.
“How's that? It's too long now. What must be added?”
“Why, now that your father is alive, you are Quincy Adams Sawyer, Junior.”
“I am more than willing to make the addition, mother, and hope it will be many years before I am obliged to shorten it.”
When they reached Vertano but three days remained before the departure of Mr. Wallingford and his orchestra for Paris, but during that time there were drives through the beautiful country, boat rides upon the lake, rehearsals by the orchestra and the performance of an operetta written by Mr. Wallingford in which he, his wife, and seven children took part.
“Shall we go to Paris?” asked Alice.