Joan was amused to hear Ellen Neal called "Mrs."—she who was so unmistakably and truculently a spinster; also she was surprised at the politeness of her "sir" in response, for Ellen was not given to the small amenities of social intercourse. The Major himself was rarely "sir" to Ellen.
The whistling resumed itself, coming rapidly nearer; and around the curve of the stairs, which he took two at a time, bounded a young man, who brought himself and his whistling to a full stop just in time to avoid carrying Joan with him in his downward course.
"Whew!—just missed you!" he exclaimed aghast. "You startled me. For a minute I thought you were a ghost!"
"Perhaps I am," murmured Joan, and demurely passed on up the stairs.
He turned and stared after the white ascending figure. She was aware of his eyes following her. Suddenly he chuckled, "I knew I'd find you again. And I found the quotation, too! 'Richard the Second,' by William Shakespeare."
Joan glanced over her shoulder. "I do not know what you are talking about," she said frigidly, "and I do not know you from Adam!" She had brought the impertinence upon herself, but she felt quite able to handle it—particularly with Ellen Neal just a few steps away.
Even as she spoke, however, she was aware that she did know this young man. Something in his voice, in his awkward, deferential manner, brought back to her memory the too-sympathetic drummer on the train. She lifted her eyes from his necktie to his face, remembering past regrets. His ears stuck out.
"Like the Yellow Kid's!" she thought disgustedly.
There is nothing in the least romantic about a man whose ears stick out. He might as well be fat....
"'Sad stories of the death of kings,'" he was explaining eagerly. "I looked it up myself. Sort of sounded like Shakespeare."