"I should have made the move last year," continued Nicolovius, pulling at his auburn mustaches, "except that--well, I am more sensitive to my loneliness as I grow older, and the fact was that I lacked a congenial companion to share a pleasanter home with." The eyes of the two men met, and they moved away from each other as by common consent. Apparently the same thought popped simultaneously into both their minds. Queed dallied with his thought, frankly and with the purest unaltruism. Though this was the first time he had ever been in the old professor's pretty room, it was the third or fourth time he had been invited there. Nothing could be clearer than that Nicolovius liked him enormously,--where on earth did he get his fatal gift for attracting people?--nothing than that he was exactly the sort of congenial companion the old man desired. Why shouldn't he go and live with Nicolovius in his new home, the home of perfect quiet and immunity from boarders? And unbroken leisure, too, for of course Nicolovius would bear all expenses, and he himself would fly from all remunerative work as from the Black Death. Nay more, the old chap would very likely be willing to pay him a salary for his society, or at least, see that he was kept well supplied with everything he needed--books to demolish like this one under his arm, and ... He looked up and found the sardonic Italian eyes of the old professor fixed on him with a most curious expression.... No, no! Better even Mrs. Paynter's than solitude shared with this stagey old man, with his repellent face and his purring voice which his eyes so belied. "I must be going," said Queed hastily. His host came forward with suave expressions of regret. "However, I feel much complimented that you came at all. Pray honor me again very soon--" "I'll return this book sometime," continued the young man, already at the door. "You won't mind if I mark it, of course?" "My dear sir--most certainly not. Indeed I hoped that you would consent to accept it for your own, as a--" "No, I'll return it. I daresay you will find," he added with a faint smile, but his grossest one, "that my notes have not lessened its value exactly!" In the hall Queed looked at his watch; ten minutes to ten. _Twenty-five minutes to his visit upon the old professor!_ However, let us be calm and just about it. The twenty-five minutes was not a flat loss: he had got Crozier by it. Crozier was worth twenty-five minutes; thirty-five, if it came to that--fifty!... But how to fit such a thing as this into the Schedule--and Klinker's visits--and the time he had given to Fifi to-night and very likely would have to give through an endless chain of to-morrows? Here was the burning crux. Was it endurable that the Schedule must be corrupted yet again?