"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?"