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Updated: May 31, 2025
"I shall always regret," continued West, laboriously, "that my silence, which I assure you I meant in kindness, should have Why do you look at me that way, Miss Weyland?" he said, with a quick change of voice. "I don't understand you." Sharlee gave a small start and said: "Was I looking at you in any particular way?"
For Surface sat long that evening, meditating how he might most surely break up the friendship between his young friend and Sharlee Weyland; while Queed, all during his busy hours at the office, found his thoughts of Nicolovius dominated by speculations as to what Miss Weyland would say, if she knew that he had formed a lifelong compact with the man who had betrayed her father's friendship and looted her own fortune.
For besides the brilliant blackness of the narrative, 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?
"You contradict yourself twice in the same breath! You just said that you would let the courts settle that question " "As to the Weyland estate's claim, yes. But I do not let the courts regulate my own sense of honor." Surface, elbows on the table, buried his face in his hands. Queed slowly rose, a heart of lead in his breast. He had failed.
A clean half-hour remained before he must go and call on the young lady with the tom-boy name, Charles Weyland, who knew "what the public liked." He spent it, he, the indefatigable minute-shaver, sitting with the head that no longer ached clamped in his hand. It had been the most disturbing day of his life, but he was not thinking of that exactly.
Here, doubtless, would some day stand the colossal work of Queed. At the big desk sat the Rev. Mr. Dayne, a practical idealist of no common sort, a kind-faced man with a crisp brown mustache. At the typewriter-table sat Sharlee Weyland, writing firm letters to thirty-one county almshouse keepers. It was hard upon noon. Sharlee looked tired and sad about the eyes. She had not been to supper at Mrs.
I tell you these old Bourbons whom we call leaders are millstones around our necks, and we can never move an inch until we've laid the last one of them under the sod." Sharlee Weyland, to whom he repeated this thought, though she was all sympathy with his difficulties, did not nevertheless think that this was quite fair.
"Sculpture," relief on walls of west archway. Bela L. Pratt. Rotunda, Entrance Through North Archway William Cullen Bryant, by Herbert Adams. Lafayette, by Paul Weyland Bartlett. The Young Franklin, by Robert Tait. Princeton Student Memorial, by Daniel Chester French. "Architecture," relief by Richard H. Recchia. Commodore John Barry, by John J. Boyle.
"Very well you most mysterious lady. Go on and tell me why you can't help feeling sorry for Mr. Surface." Miss Avery told him. How she knew anything about the private affairs of Mr. Surface and Miss Weyland, of which it is certain that neither of them had ever spoken, is a mystery, indeed: but Gossip is Argus and has a thousand ears to boot.
The girl was Sharlee Weyland, and Sharlee was the short for Charlotte Lee, as invented by herself some score of years before. One baby-name in a hundred sticks through a lifetime, and hers was the one in that particular hundred. Of the young men along the way, one was so lucky as to catch her eye through a large plate-glass window.
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