He had set up no silhouette of a charging soldier peppered with bullet marks on the wall of his office, for this was a picture that he carried in his mind.  Pertinent to his own taste, under the glance of the portraits of the old heroes, was a little statuette of a harvester called Toil on his desk.

“That’s the fellow we’re defending,” he would say, becoming almost rhapsodical.  “I like to think back to him.  He’s the infantry before you put him in uniform.”

Let officers apply themselves with conspicuous energy and they heard from a genial Partow; let officers only keep step and free of courts martial, and they heard from a merciless taskmaster.  Resign, please, if you like a leisurely life, he told the idlers; and he had a way of making them so uncomfortable that they would take the advice.  Among the sons of rest who had retired to mourn over the world going to the devil he was referred to as not being a gentleman, which amused him; some said that he was crazy, which amused him even more.

Peculiarly human, peculiarly dictatorial, dynamic, and inscrutable was Partow, who never asked any one under him to work harder than himself.

Lanstron appeared in the presence of Jove shortly after eight o’clock the next morning after he left La Tir.  Jove rolled his big head on his short neck in a nod and said: 

“Late!”

“The train was late, sir!”

“And you have disobeyed orders!” grumbled Partow.

“Disobeyed orders?  How, sir?”

“And you look me in the eye as you always do!  You think that excuses you, perhaps?”

“No, sir.  But I am bound to ask what orders?”

“Well, not orders, but my instructions; at least, my desire.  Flying yourself—­directing a manoeuvre—­racing the Grays!”

“You heard about it?”

“I hear about everything!  I have told you not to risk your life.  Lives are assets of various kinds in an army.  It is my business to determine the relative value of those of my subordinates.  You are not to sacrifice yours.”

“I haven’t yet, sir.  I have it with me this morning,” Lanstron replied, “and I have some news about our thousandth chance.”

“Hm-m!  What is it?” asked Partow.  When Lanstron had told the story, Partow worked his lips in a way he had if he were struck by a passing reflection which might or might not have a connection with the subject in hand.  “Strange about her when you consider who her parents were!” he said.  “But you never know.  His son,” nodding to Toil, “might be a great painter or a snob.  Miss Galland has an idea—­that’s something—­and character and a brain making arrows so fast that she shoots them into the blue just for mental relief.  She’s quite a woman.  If I were thirty, and single, I believe I’d fall in love with her.  But don’t you dare tell Mrs. Partow.  I want the fun of telling her myself.  Hm-m!  Why don’t you sit down, young man?”

Partow turned his thick, white palm toward a chair, and his smile, now clearly showing that he was not deeply offended with Lanstron’s insubordination, had a singular charm.  The smile vanished as Lanstron seated himself and in its place came such a look as friend Toil had seen on very rare occasions.