to have taken an extra toddy in honor of her coming, or for any other
reason why, flung aside his newspaper and seized both her hands. Mr.
Bylash, in the moleskin waistcoat, sure enough, bowed low and referred
to her agreeably as "stranger," nor did he again return to Miss Miller's
side on the sofa. That young lady was gay and giggling, but watchful
withal. When Sharlee was not looking, Miss Miller's eye, rather hard
now, roved over her ceaselessly from the point of her toe to the top of
her feather. What was the trick she had, the little way with her, that
so delightfully unlocked the gates of gentlemen's hearts?

At supper they were lively and gay. The butter and preserves were in
front of Sharlee, for her to help to; by her side sat Fifi, the young
daughter of the house. Major Brooke sat at the head of the table and
carved the Porterhouse, upon which when the eyes of William Klinker
fell, they irrepressibly shot forth gleams. At the Major's right sat his
wife, a pale, depressed, nervous woman, as anybody who had lived thirty
years with the gallant officer her husband had a right to be. She was
silent, but the Major talked a great deal, not particularly well. Much
the same may be said of Mr. Bylash and Miss Miller. Across the table
from Mrs. Brooke stood an empty chair. It belonged to the little
Doctor, Mr. Queed. Across the table from Sharlee stood another. This one
belonged to the old professor, Nicolovius. When the meal was well along,
Nicolovius came in, bowed around the table in his usual formal way, and
silently took his place. While Sharlee liked everybody in the
boarding-house, including Miss Miller, Professor Nicolovius was the only
one of them that she considered at all interesting. This was because of
his strongly-cut face, like the grand-ducal villain in a
ten-twenty-thirty melodrama, and his habit of saying savage things in a
soft, purring voice. He was rude to everybody, and particularly rude, so
Sharlee thought, to her. As for the little Doctor, he did not come in at