did not laugh or even smile. He drew up a chair at his usual place and
sat down. As by an involuntary reflex, his left hand dropped toward his
coat-pocket, whence the top edges of a book could be described
protruding. Mrs. Paynter moved vaguely toward the door. As for her
business woman, she made at once for the kitchen, where Emma and her
faithful co-worker and mother, Laura, rose from their supper to assist
her. With her own hands the girl cut a piece of the Porterhouse for Mr.
Queed. Creamed potatoes, two large spoonfuls, were added; two rolls;
some batterbread; coffee, which had to be diluted with a little hot
water to make out the full cup; butter; damson preserves in a saucer:
all of which duly set forth and arranged on a shiny black "waiter."

"Enough for a whole platform of doctors," said Sharlee, critically
reviewing the spread. "Thank you, Emma."

She took the tray in both hands and pushed open the swing-doors with her
side, thus making her ingress to the dining-room in a sort of
crab-fashion. Mrs. Paynter was gone. Mr. Queed sat alone in the
dining-room. His book lay open on the table and he was humped over it,
hand in his hair.

Having set her tray on the side-table, Sharlee came to his side with the
plate of steak and potatoes. He did not stir, and presently she
murmured, "I beg your pardon."

He looked up half-startled, not seeming to take in for the first second
who or what she was.

"Oh ... yes."