At the Major's right sat his
wife, a pale, depressed, nervous woman, as anybody who had lived thirty
years with the gallant officer her husband had a right to be. She was
silent, but the Major talked a great deal, not particularly well. Much
the same may be said of Mr. Bylash and Miss Miller. Across the table
from Mrs. Brooke stood an empty chair. It belonged to the little
Doctor, Mr. Queed. Across the table from Sharlee stood another. This one
belonged to the old professor, Nicolovius. When the meal was well along,
Nicolovius came in, bowed around the table in his usual formal way, and
silently took his place. While Sharlee liked everybody in the
boarding-house, including Miss Miller, Professor Nicolovius was the only
one of them that she considered at all interesting. This was because of
his strongly-cut face, like the grand-ducal villain in a
ten-twenty-thirty melodrama, and his habit of saying savage things in a
soft, purring voice. He was rude to everybody, and particularly rude, so
Sharlee thought, to her. As for the little Doctor, he did not come in at
all. Half-way through supper, Sharlee looked at her aunt and gave a
meaning glance at the empty seat.
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