Mr. Queed avoided Fifi's smile; he obviously deliberated.
"If you have any more of these terrible difficulties," he said slowly, "it isn't necessary for you to sit there all evening and cry over them. You ... may ask me to show you."
"Oh, could I really! Thank you ever so much. But no, I won't be here, you see. I didn't mean to come to-night—truly, Mr. Queed—I know I bother you so—only Mother made me."
"Your mother made you? Why?"
"Well—it's right cold upstairs, you know," said Fifi, gathering up her books, "and she thought it might not be very good for my cough...."
Queed glanced impatiently at the girl's delicate face. A frown deepened on his brow; he cleared his throat with annoyance.
"Oh, I am willing," he said testily, "for you to bring your work here whenever it is very cold upstairs."
"Oh, how good you are, Mr. Queed!" cried Fifi, staggered by his nobility. "But of course I can't think of bothering—"
"I should not have asked you," he interrupted her, irritably, "if I had not been willing for you to come."
But for all boarders, their comfort and convenience, Fifi had the great respect which all of us feel for the source of our livelihood; and, stammering grateful thanks, she again assured him that she could not make such a nuisance of herself. However, of course Mr. Queed had his way, as he always did.