"Ah, well! Forgive the saddening reminiscences of an old man—not a common weakness with me, I assure you. May I say, Mr. Queed, how much your intellect, your culture, your admirable—ah—poise—amazing they seem to me in so young a man—have appealed to me among a population of Brookes, Bylashes, and Klinkers? You are the first man in many a day that has inspired me with an impulse toward friendship and confidence. It would be a real kindness if you'd come in sometimes of an evening."
At the word "friendship" the young man flinched uncontrollably. Was the whole diabolical world in league to spring out and make friends with him?
"Unfortunately," he said, with his iciest bow, "my time is entirely engrossed by my work."
But as his eye went round the pretty, dim-lit room, he could not help contrasting it with the bleak Scriptorium above, and he added with a change of tone and a sigh:—
"You appear wonderfully comfortable here."
Nicolovius shrugged. "So-so," he said indifferently. "However, I shall make a move before long."
"Indeed?"
"I want more space and independence, more quiet—surcease from meeting fellow-boarders at every step. I plan to move into an apartment, or perhaps a modest little house, if I can manage it. For I am not rich, unhappily, though I believe the boarders think I am, because I make Emma a present of a dollar each year at the anniversary of the birth of our Lord."
Queed ignored his little pleasantry. He was struck with the fact that Nicolovius had described exactly the sort of living arrangement that he himself most earnestly desired.
"I should have made the move last year," continued Nicolovius, pulling at his auburn mustaches, "except that—well, I am more sensitive to my loneliness as I grow older, and the fact was that I lacked a congenial companion to share a pleasanter home with."