On
his ankles were immaculate white spats, and in his buttonhole blossomed
the inevitable rose.
"Quinby Graham!" he cried in accents of rapture. "My Cassius's beloved
Quin! _My_ beloved Quin! What happy fortune blew you hither? But no
matter. You are here--you are ours. Eleanor and I are going out to a
studio party at a dear, dear friend's. You shall accompany us!"
"Oh, no, Papa Claude," protested Eleanor. "Quin doesn't want to go to
Miss Linton's messy old party. Neither do I. You go and leave us here.
There are a million things I want to ask him."
But Papa Claude would not consider it. "You can ask them to-morrow," he
said. "To-night I claim you both. We will introduce Quinby as one of the
gallant heroes of the Great War. I shall tell his story--no--he shall
tell it! Come, put on your hat, Eleanor; we must start at once."
"But here! Hold on!" protested Quin, laughing and freeing himself from
Papa Claude's encircling arm, "I'm not fixed to go to a party, and I
haven't got any story to tell. I'll clear out and come back to-morrow."
"No, no!" protested Eleanor and Papa Claude in a breath, and after a
brief struggle for supremacy the latter triumphantly continued:
"I promise you shall say nothing, if you prefer it.
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