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Of Fifi on Friendship, and who would be sorry if Queed died; of Queed's Mad Impulse, sternly overcome; of his Indignant Call upon Nicolovius, the Old Professor. Could I interrupt you for just a minute, Mr. Queed?" "No. It is not time yet." "Cicero's so horrid to-night." "Don't scatter your difficulties, as I've told you before.
Therefore Queed knew that Nicolovius, by taking the case of one soldier in ten, perhaps, or twenty or fifty, and offering it as typical of the whole, was bitterly caricaturing history; and he wondered why in the world the old man cared to do it. "My own reading of the recent history of the South," said Queed, "can hardly sustain such a view." "You have only to read further to be convinced."
He could not feel honest again until he had wiped it off.... And, after all, what did he owe to Nicolovius? "But I must not leave you under the impression," said Nicolovius, almost testily for him, "that my ideas are unique and extraordinary. They are shared, in fact, by Southern historians of repute and " Queed turned on him. "But you never read Southern historians."
"That is absolutely foolish and absurd. I have nothing in the world to do with what Professor Nicolovius needs. You must always remember that I am not a subscriber to the tenets of your religion." "It is not too late. I always remember that too." "But I must say frankly that I am much surprised at the way you interpret those tenets. For if "
If this was happiness, then it came to him for their first meeting wearing a strange face.... "You know the story?" Queed moved in his chair. "Yes. I have heard it." "Of course," said Nicolovius. "It is as well known as Iscariot's. By God, how they've hounded me!" Evidently he was recovering fast. There was bitterness, rather than shame, in his voice.
For if, on the day when Nicolovius had suddenly revealed himself as Surface, he had been asked to give himself bodily, he was now asked to give himself spiritually to give all that made him the man he was. From the stark alternative, once raised, there was no escape. Queed closed with it, and together they went down into deep waters.
"Ah, no," said Nicolovius, "there was no gracious pardon for my little peccadillo, no statute of limitations to run after me and pat me on the head. I love England best with the sea between us. You may fancy that a refugee Irishman has no fondness for reading history." He flicked the fire-ash from his cigar and looked at Queed.
He was aware that he would find it very difficult to walk into the sitting-room at this moment, and tell Nicolovius that he was going to leave. The old man would probably make a scene. The irritating thing about it was that Nicolovius, being as solitary in the great world as he himself, actually minded his isolation, and was apparently coming to depend upon him.
Nothing could be clearer than that Nicolovius liked him enormously, where on earth did he get his fatal gift for attracting people? nothing than that he was exactly the sort of congenial companion the old man desired. Why shouldn't he go and live with Nicolovius in his new home, the home of perfect quiet and immunity from boarders?
Nicolovius had a smile for that, though his expression seemed subtly to shift. "I must make confession to you. Three days ago, I broke the habits of quarter of a century. At the second-hand shop on Centre Street I bought, actually, a little volume of history. It is surprising how these Southern manifestations have interested me."
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