In time, the talk between the two young men, which had begun so desultorily, warmed up. Byrd had read something besides the Fifth Reader, and Queed had discovered before to-night that he had ideas to express. Their conversation progressed with waxing interest, from the President's message to the causes of the fall of Rome, and thence by wholly logical transitions to the French Revolution and Woman's Suffrage. Byrd gradually became so absorbed that he almost, but not quite, neglected to keep Mr. Miller in his place. As for Queed, he spoke in defense of the "revolt of woman" for five minutes without interruption, and his masterly sentences finally drew the silence and attention of Mr. Miller himself.
"Who is that fellow?" he asked in an undertone. "I didn't catch his name."
Sharlee told him.
"He's got a fine face," observed Mr. Miller. "I've made quite a study of faces, and I never saw one just like his—so absolutely on one note, if you know what I mean."
"What note is that?" asked Sharlee, interested by him for the only time so long as they both did live.
"Well, it's not always easy to put a name to it, but I'd call it ... honesty.—If you know what I mean."
Mr. Miller stayed until half-past ten. The door had hardly shut upon him when Byrd, too, rose.
"Oh, don't go, Beverley!" protested Sharlee. "I've hardly spoken to you."
"Duty calls," said Byrd. "I'm going to walk home with Mr. Miller."
"Beverley—don't! You were quite horrid enough while he was here."