“Thank you.  That was what I wished to say.”

If Sharlee had wanted to measure now the difference that she saw in Mr. Queed, she could have done it by the shyness that they both felt in approaching a topic they had once handled with the easiest simplicity.  She was glad of his sensitiveness; it became him better than his early callousness.  Sharlee wore a suit of black-and-gray pin-checks, and it was very excellently tailored; for if she purchased but two suits a year, she invariably paid money to have them made by one who knew how.  Her hat was of the kind that other girls study with cool diligence, while feigning engrossment in the conversation; and, repairing to their milliners, give orders for accurate copies of it.  From it floated a silky-looking veil of gray-white, which gave her face that airy, cloud-like setting that photographers of the baser sort so passionately admire.  The place was as windy as Troy; from far on the ringing plains the breeze raced and fell upon this veil, ceaselessly kicking it here and there, in a way that would have driven a strong man lunatic in seven minutes.  Sharlee, though a slim girl and no stronger than another, remained entirely unconscious of the behavior of the veil; long familiarity had bred contempt for its boisterous play; and, with her eyes a thousand miles away, she was wishing with her whole heart that she dared ask Mr. Queed a question.

Whereupon, like her marionette that she worked by a string, he opened his mouth and gravely answered her.

“I have three theories about my father.  One is that he is an eccentric psychologist with peculiar, not to say extraordinary, ideas about the bringing up of children.  Another is that because of his own convenience or circumstances, he does not care to own me as I am now.  The third is that because of my convenience or circumstances, he thinks that I may not care to own him as he is now.  I have never heard of or from him since the letter I showed you, nearly nine months ago.  I rather incline to the opinion,” he said, “that my father is dead.”

“If he isn’t,” said Sharlee, gently, as the great car whizzed up and stopped with a jerk, “I am very sure that you are to find him some day.  If he hadn’t meant that, he would never have asked you to come all the way from New York to settle here—­do you think so?”

“Do you know,” said Mr. Queed—­so absorbedly as to leave her to clamber up the car steps without assistance—­“if I subscribed to the tenets of your religion, I might believe that my father was merely a mythical instrument of Providence—­a tradition created out of air just to bring me down here.”

“Why,” said Sharlee, looking down from the tall platform, as the car whizzed and buzzed and slowly started, “aren’t you coming?”

“No, I’m walking,” said Mr. Queed, and remembered at the last moment to pluck off his glistening new derby.