“I can’t resist taking our doughty swashbuckler down a peg or two every now and then,” said he.  “Did you ever know such an interminable ass?”

“Really, I never thought about it,” said the young man, raising his eye-brows in surprise and annoyance at being addressed.

“Then take my word for it.  You’ll not find his match in America.  You show your wisdom, at any rate, in giving as little of your valuable time as possible to our charming supper-table.”

“That hardly argues any Solomonic wisdom, I fancy.”

“You’re in the hands of the Philistines here, Mr. Queed,” said Nicolovius, snapping his final button.  “May I say that I have read some of your editorials in the Post with—­ah—­pleasure and profit?  I should feel flattered if you would come to see me in my room some evening, where I can offer you, at any rate, a fire and a so-so cigar.”

“Thank you.  However, I do not smoke,” said Doctor Queed, and, bowing coldly to the old professor, started rapidly up the stairs.

Aloft the young man went to his scriptorium, happy in the thought that five hours of incorruptible leisure and unswerving devotion to his heart’s dearest lay before him.  It had been a day when the Post did not require him; hour by hour since breakfast he had fared gloriously upon his book.  But to-night his little room was cold; unendurably cold; not even the flamings of genius could overcome its frigor; and hardly half an hour had passed before he became aware that his sanctum was altogether uninhabitable.  Bitterly he faced the knowledge that he must fare forth into the outer world of the dining-room that night; irritably he gathered up his books and papers.

Half-way down the first flight a thought struck Queed, and he retraced his steps.  The last time that he had been compelled to the dining-room the landlady’s daughter had been there—­(it was all an accident, poor child!  Hadn’t she vowed to herself never to intrude on the little Doctor again?)—­and, stupidly breaking the point of her pencil, had had the hardihood to ask him for the loan of his knife.  Mr. Queed was determined that this sort of thing should not occur again.  A method for enforcing his determination, at once firm and courteous, had occurred to him.  One could never tell when trespassers would stray into the dining-room—­his dining-room by right of his exalted claim.  Rummaging in his bottom bureau drawer, he produced a placard, like a narrow little sign-board, and tucking it under his arm, went on downstairs.

The precaution was by no means superfluous.  Disgustingly enough the landlady’s daughter was once more in his dining-room before him, the paraphernalia of her algebra spread over half the Turkey-red cloth.  Fifi looked up, plainly terrified at his entrance and his forbidding expression.  It was her second dreadful blunder, poor luckless little wight!  She had faithfully waited a whole half-hour, and Mr.