"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?"
"Home!" exclaimed Quentin, in a voice that trembled, for the wine was affecting him; "I have none!"
The three officers glanced at each other, and the fair-haired ensign's white eyebrows went up rather superciliously.
"I find that I must talk with you, my young friend," said Warriston—"will you have a cigar?" he added, offering his case after the cloth was removed.
"Thank you—no; I am not a smoker."