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Updated: May 31, 2025
For the present he would sit silent, calmly waiting at least until unjust resentment subsided and reason reasserted her sway. Many days passed, as it happened, before West and the Secretary of Charities met; six days before West and the Assistant Secretary met. On the sixth night, about half-past seven in the evening, he came unexpectedly face to face with Sharlee Weyland in the vestibule of Mrs.
Queed wore his day clothes of blue, which were not so new as they were the day Sharlee first saw them, on the rustic bridge near the little cemetery. He had, of course, taken it for granted that he would find Miss Weyland alone. Nevertheless, he did not appear disconcerted by the sudden discovery of his mistake, or even by Mr.
Sharlee, fixing her hair in the back before the mirror, laughed long and merrily. "Do you dare do you dare look your own daughter in the eye and say she is no lady?" "Do you like this young man?" Mrs. Weyland continued. "He interests me, heaps and heaps." Mrs. Weyland sighed.
But just when she was safely by, her ears were astonished by his voice speaking her name. "How do you do, Miss Weyland?" She turned, surprised by a familiar note in the deep tones, looked, and yes, there could be no doubt of it it was "Mr. Queed! Why, how do you do!" They shook hands.
When Surface withdrew from the State with a heart full of savage rancor, Weyland went every year or two to visit him, first in Chicago and later in New York, where the exile was not slow in winning name and fortune as a daring speculator.
West kept his good humor and self-control intact, but it was hardly to be expected that he enjoyed venomous misrepresentation of this sort. The solidest comfort he got in these days came from Sharlee Weyland, who did not read the Chronicle, and was most beautifully confident that whatever he had done was right.
Obviously the first thing to do, the one thing that could not wait an hour, was to get his sense of honesty somehow back again. He must compel Surface to hand over to Miss Weyland immediately every cent of money that he had. The delivery could be arranged easily enough, without any sensational revelations.
Many pictured post-cards and an occasional brief note reminded Miss Weyland during the summer that Charles Gardiner West was pursuing his studies in the Old World with peregrinative zest. By the trail of colored photographs she followed his triumphal march. Rome knew the president-elect in early June; Naples, Florence, Milan, Venice in the same period. Never so full of energy and enthusiasm.
It did not, of course, have that effect, but it did arrest and pique his attention most successfully. It was in his mind that Charles Weyland had been of some assistance to him in first suggesting work on the Post; and again about the roses for Fifi. He was still ready to believe that she might have some profitable suggestion about his new problem.
Come to think of it, he doubted if he wanted the interview to end at all. "Miss Weyland ..." She turned on the threshold of the farther door. "I beg your pardon! I thought you'd gone! Your hat? I think you left it in the hall, didn't you?" "It is not my hat." "Oh what is it?" "God knows," said the little Doctor, hoarsely.
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