He turned upon her vehemently. "May I ask you never to waste my time
with questions of that sort. I never--_never_--say anything until I have
fully made up my mind about it. Good-morning."
"No, no, no! Don't go yet! Please--I want to speak to you a minute."
He stopped and turned, but did not retrace the three steps he had taken.
Sharlee leaned against the door and looked away from him, out into the
park.
The little Doctor was badly in need of a surgical operation. Somebody
must perform it for him, or his whole life was a dusty waste. That he
still had glimmerings, he had shown this very hour, in wanting to make a
gift to his sick little fellow-lodger. His resentment over his dismissal
from the _Post_, too, was an unexpectedly human touch in him. But in the
same breath with these things the young man had showed himself at his
worst: the glimmerings were so overlaid with an incredible snobbery of
the mind, so encrusted with the rankest and grossest egotism, that soon
they must flutter and die out, leaving him stone-blind against the
sunshine and the morning. No scratch could penetrate that Achilles-armor
of self-sufficiency. There must be a shock to break it apart, or a
vicious stabbing to cut through it to such spark as was still alive.
Somebody must administer that shock or do that stabbing. Why not she? He
would hate the sight of her forevermore, but ...
"Mr. Queed," said Sharlee, turning toward him, "you let me see, from
what you are doing this morning, that you think of Fifi as your friend.
I'd like to ask if you think of me in that way, too."
O Lord, _Lord!_ Here was another one!
"No," he said positively. "Think of you as I do of Fifi! No, no! No, I
do not."
"I don't mean to ask if you think of me as you do of Fifi. Of course I
am sure you don't. I only mean--let me put it this way: Do you believe
that I have your--interests at heart, and would like to do anything I
could to help you?"
He thought this over warily. Doubtless doomed Smathers would have smiled
to note the slowness with which his great rival's mind threshed out such
a question as this.
"If you state your proposition in that way, I reply, tentatively, yes."
"Then can you spare me half an hour to-night after supper?"
"For what purpose?"
"For you and me," she smiled. "I'd like you to come and see me, at my
house, where we could really have a little talk. You see, I know Colonel
Cowles very well indeed, and I have read the _Post_ for oh, many, many
years! In this way I know something about the kind of articles people
here like to read, and about--what is needed to write such articles. I
think I might make a suggestion or two that--would help. Will you
come?"
After somewhat too obvious a consideration, Queed consented. Sharlee
thanked him.
"I'll put my address down on the back of that paper, shall I? And I
think I'll put my name, too, for I don't believe you have the faintest
idea what it is."
"Oh, yes. The name is Miss Charlie Weyland. It appears that you were
named after a boy?"
"Oh, it's only a silly nickname. Here's your little directory back. I'll
be very glad to see you--at half-past eight, shall we say? But, Mr.
Queed--don't come unless you feel sure that I really want to help. For
I'm afraid I'll have to say a good deal that will make you very mad."
He bowed and walked away. Sharlee went to the telephone and called
Bartlett's, the florist. She told Mr. Bartlett that a young man would
come in there in a few minutes--full description of the young
man--asking for seventy-five cents' worth of red roses; Mr. Bartlett
would please give him two dozen roses, and charge the difference to her,
Miss Weyland; the entire transaction to be kept discreetly quiet.
However the transaction was not kept entirely quiet. The roses were
delivered promptly, and became the chief topic of conversation at Mrs.
Paynter's dinner-table. Through an enforced remark of Mr. Queed's, and
the later discursive gossip of the boarders, it became disseminated over
the town that Bartlett's was selling American Beauties at thirty-seven
and a half cents a dozen, and the poor man had to buy ten inches, double
column, in the _Post_ next morning to get himself straightened out and
reestablish Bartlett's familiar quotations.