“I’ve been thinking about it lots, President West,” said she; “it grows better all the time.  Won’t you please teach all your boys to be very good, and to work hard, and never to grow up to make trouble for the State Department of Charities.”

She had on a carriage-robe of light blue, collared and edged with white fur, and her arms were as full of red roses as arms could be.

“But if I do that too well,” said he, “what would become of you?  Blaines College shall never blot out the Department of Charities.  I nearly forgot a bit of news.  Gloomy news.  The Post is going to fire your little Doctor.”

“Ah—­no!”

“It looks that way.  The directors will take it up definitely in April.  Colonel Cowles is going to recommend it.  He says the Doc has more learning than society requires.”

“But don’t you think his articles give a—­a tone to the paper—­and—?”

“I do; a sombre, awful, majestic tone, if you like, but still one that ought to be worth something.”

Sharlee looked sad, and it was one of her best looks.

“Ah, me!  I don’t know what will become of him if he is turned adrift.  Could you, could you do anything?”

“I can, and will,” said he agreeably.  “I think the man’s valuable, and you may count on it that I shall use my influence to have him kept.”

So the Star and the Planet again fought in their courses for Mr. Queed.  West, gazing down at her, overcoat on arm, looked like a Planet who usually had his way.  The Star, too, had strong inclinations in the same direction.  For example, she had noted at supper the lily-of-the-valley in the Planet’s buttonhole, and she had not been able to see any good reason for that.

Her eyes became dreamy.  “How shall I say thank you?...  I know.  I must give you one of my pretty flowers for your buttonhole.”  She began pulling out one of the glorious roses, but suddenly checked herself and gazed off pensively into space, a finger at her lip.  “Ah!  I thought this gesture seemed strangely familiar, and now I remember.  I gave him a flower once before, and ah, look!... the president of the college has tossed it away.”

West glanced hastily down at his buttonhole.  The lily-of-the-valley was gone; he had no idea where he had lost it, nor could he now stay to inquire.  The rose he took with tender carefulness from the upper pocket of his waistcoat.

“What did Mademoiselle expect?” said he, with a courtly bow.  “The president wears it over his heart.”

Sharlee’s smile was a coronation for a man.

“That one was for the president.  This new one,” said she, plucking it out, “is for the director and—­the man.”

This new one, after all, she put into his buttonhole with her own hands, while he held her great bunch of them.  As she turned away from the dainty ceremony, her color faintly heightened, Sharlee looked straight into the narrow eyes of Miss Avery, who, talking with a little knot of men some distance away, had been watching her closely.  The two girls smiled and bowed to each other with extraordinary sweetness.