It was half-past six o'clock on a pretty summer's evening. Queed opened the house-door with a latch-key and went upstairs to the comfortable living-room, which faithfully reproduced the old professor's sitting-room at Mrs. Paynter's. Nicolovius, in his black silk cap, was sitting near the open window, reading and smoking a strong cigarette.
"Ah, here you are! I was just thinking that you were rather later than usual this evening."
"Yes, I went to Colonel Cowles's funeral. It was decidedly impressive."
"Ah!"
Queed dropped down into one of Nicolovius's agreeable chairs and let his eyes roam over the room. He was extremely comfortable in this house; a little too comfortable, he was beginning to think now, considering that he paid but seven dollars and fifty cents a week towards its support. He had a desk and lamp all his own in the living-room, a table and lamp in his bedroom, ease and independence over two floors. An old negro man looked after the two gentlemen and gave them excellent things to eat. The house was an old one, and small; it was in an unfashionable part of town, and having stood empty for some time, could be had for thirty-five dollars a month. However, Nicolovius had wiped out any economy here by spending his money freely to repair and beautify. He had had workmen in the house for a month, papering, painting, plumbing, and altering.
"Dozens of people could not get in the church," said Queed. "They stood outside in the street till the service was over."
Nicolovius was looking out of the window, and answered casually. "I daresay he was an excellent man according to his lights."
"Coming to know him very well in the past year, I found that his lights stood high."
"As high, I am sure, as the environment in which he was born and raised made possible."
"You have a low opinion, then, of ante-bellum civilization in the South?"