Not that he would necessarily care to do it, but the runner could read Mr. Miller, without a glass, at one hundred paces' distance. He was of the climber type, a self-made man in the earlier and less inspiring stages of the making. Culture had a dangerous fascination for him. He adored to talk of books; a rash worship, it seemed, since his but bowing acquaintance with them trapped him frequently into mistaken identities over which Sharlee with difficulty kept a straight face, while Byrd palpably rejoiced. "You know _Thanatopsis_, of course," he would ask, with a rapt and glowing eye--"Lord Byron's beautiful poem on the philosophy of life? Now that is my idea of what poetry ought to be, Miss Weyland...." And Beverley Byrd, breaking his remark to Queed off short in the middle, would turn to Sharlee with a face of studious calm and say:-- "Will you ever forget, Sharlee, the first time you read the other _Thanatopsis_--the one by William Cullen Bryant? Don't you remember how it looked--with the picture of Bryant--in the old Fifth Reader?" Mr. Miller proved that he could turn brick-red, but he learned nothing from experience. 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." "But you spoiled it all by being so unnecessarily agreeable! It is my business, as your friend and well-wisher, to see that he doesn't carry away too jolly a memory of his visit. Take lunch downtown with me to-morrow, won't you, Mr. Queed--at the Business Men's Club? I want to finish our talk about the Catholic nations, and why they're decadent."