is mistake, or
even by Mr. Miller's glorious waistcoat; he was as grave as ever, but
showed no signs of embarrassment. Sharlee caught herself observing him
closely, as he shook hands with the two men and selected a chair for
himself; she concluded that constant contact with the graces of Charles
Gardiner West had not been without its effect upon him. He appeared
decidedly more at his ease than Mr. Miller, for instance, and he had
another valuable possession which that personage lacked, namely, the
face of a gentleman.

But it was too evident that he felt little sense of responsibility for
the maintenance of the conversation. He sat back in a chair of
exceptionable comfortableness, and allowed Beverley Byrd to discourse
with him; a privilege which Byrd exercised fitfully, for his heart was
in the talk that Sharlee was dutifully supporting with Mr. Miller. Into
this talk he resolutely declined to be drawn, but his ear was alert for
opportunities--which came not infrequently--to thrust in a polished oar
to the discomfiture of the intruder.

Not that he would necessarily care to do it, but the runner could read
Mr. Miller, without a glass, at one hundred paces' distance. He was of
the climber type, a self-made man in the earlier and less inspiring
stages of the making. Culture had a dangerous fascination for him. He
adored to talk of books; a rash worship, it seemed, since his but bowing
acquaintance with them trapped him frequently into mistaken identities
over which Sharlee with difficulty kept a straight face, while Byrd
palpably rejoiced.

"You know _Thanatopsis_, of course," he would ask, with a rapt and
glowing eye--"Lord Byron's beautiful poem on the philosophy of life? Now
that is my idea of what poetry ought to be, Miss Weyland...."

And Beverley Byrd, breaking his remark to Queed off short in the middle,
would turn to Sharlee with a face of studious calm and say:--

"Will you ever forget, Sharlee, the first time you read the other
_Thanatopsis_--the one by William Cullen Bryant? Don't you remember how
it looked--with the picture of Bryant--in the old Fifth Reader?"

Mr. Miller proved that he could turn brick-red, but he learned nothing
from experience.

In time, the talk between the two young men, which had begun so
desultorily, warmed up. Byrd had read something besides the Fifth
Reader, and Queed had discovered before to-night that he had ideas to
express. Their conversation progressed with waxing intere