,
there was the close personal connection that all Paynterites had with
some of its chief personages. Did not the sister-in-law of John Randolph
Weyland sit and preside over them daily, pouring their coffee morning
and night with her own hands? And did not the very girl whose fortune
had been stolen, the bereft herself, come now and then to sit among
them, occupying that identical chair which Mr. Bylash could touch by
merely putting out his hand? Henry G. Surface's story? Why, Mrs.
Paynter's wrote it!

These personal bearings were of course lost upon Mr. Queed, the name
Weyland being utterly without significance to him. He left the table the
moment he had absorbed all the supper he wanted. In the hall he ran upon
Professor Nicolovius, the impressive-looking master of Greek at Milner's
Collegiate School, who, already hatted and overcoated, was drawing on
his gloves under the depressed fancy chandelier. The old professor
glanced up at the sound of footsteps and favored Queed with a bland
smile.

"I can't resist taking our doughty swashbuckler down a peg or two every
now and then," said he. "Did you ever know such an interminable ass?"

"Really, I never thought about it," said the young man, raising his
eye-brows in surprise and annoyance at being addressed.

"Then take my word for it. You'll not find his match in America. You
show your wisdom, at any rate, in giving as little of your valuable time
as possible to our charming supper-table."

"That hardly argues any Solomonic wisdom, I fancy."

"You're in the hands of the Philistines here, Mr. Queed," said
Nicolovius, snapping his final button. "May I say that I have read some
of your editorials in the _Post_ with--ah--pleasure and profit? I should
feel flattered if you would come to see me in my room some evening,
where I can offer you, at any rate, a fire and a so-so cigar."

"Thank you. However, I do not smoke," said Doctor Queed, and, bowing
coldly to the old professor, started rapidly up the stairs.

Aloft the young man went to his scriptorium, happy in the thought that
five hours of incorruptible leisure and unswerving devotion to his
heart's dearest lay before him. It had been a day when the _Post_ did
not require him; hour by hour since breakfast he had fared gloriously
upon his book. But to-night his little room was cold; unendurably cold;
not even the flamings of genius could overcome its frigor; and hardly
half an hour had passed before he became aware t