sometimes."

George, who like most men of his stamp could put away his share of
liquor and feel thankful for it, drank his glass of wine while Mr.
Quest was engaged in writing the note, wondering meanwhile what made
the lawyer so civil to him. For George did not like Mr. Quest. Indeed,
it would not be too much to say that he hated him. But this was a
feeling which he never allowed to appear; he was too much afraid of
the man for that, and in his queer way too much devoted to the old
Squire's interests to run the risk of imperilling them by the
exhibition of any aversion to Mr. Quest. He knew more of his master's
affairs than anybody living, unless, perhaps, it was Mr. Quest
himself, and was aware that the lawyer held the old gentleman in a
bondage that could not be broken. Now, George was a man with faults.
He was somewhat sly, and, perhaps within certain lines, at times
capable of giving the word honesty a liberal interpretation. But
amongst many others he had one conspicuous virtue: he loved the old
Squire as a Highlandman loves his chief, and would almost, if not
quite, have died to serve him. His billet was no easy one, for Mr. de
la Molle's temper was none of the best at times, and when things went
wrong, as they pretty frequently did, he was exceedingly apt to visit
his wrath on the head of the devoted George, saying things to him
which he should not have said. But his retainer took it all in the
day's work, and never bore malice, continuing in his own cadging
pigheaded sort of way to labour early and late to prop up his master's
broken fortunes. "Lord, sir," as he once said to Harold Quaritch when
the Colonel condoled with him after a violent and unjust onslaught
made by the Squire in his presence, "Lord, sir, that ain't nawthing,
that ain't. I don't pay no manner of heed to that. Folk du say how as
I wor made for he, like a safety walve for a traction engine."