Being on the eve of adopting civilian clothes for the
first time in two years, he took a lively interest in every detail of his
patient's attire, from the modish cut of his coat to the smart pattern of
his necktie.
The bibulous one, who up to the present had regarded the affair as
humorous, now began to be lachrymose, and by the time Quin got him into
the rose-draped bed he was in a state of deep dejection.
"My mother loves me," he assured Quin tearfully. "Gives me everything. I
don't mean to be ungrateful. But I can't go on in the firm. Bangs is
dishonest, but she won't believe it. She thinks I don't know. They both
think I'm a cipher. I _am_ a cipher. But they've made me one. Get so
discouraged, then go break over like this. Promised Flo never would take
another drink. But it's no use. Can't help myself. I'm done for. Just a
cipher, a cipher, a ci----"
Quin standing by the bed waiting for him to get through adding noughts to
his opinion of himself, suddenly leaned forward and examined the picture
that hung above the table. It was of an imperial old lady in black
velvet, with a string of pearls about her throat and a tiara on her
towering white pompadour.
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