So the three sat down and held a council of war as to how little Doctor
Queed, the young man who wouldn't pay his board, was to be brought into
personal contact with Charlotte Lee Weyland, the grim and resolute
collector. Various stratagems were proposed, amid much merriment. But
the collector herself adhered to her original idea of a masterly waiting
game.
"Only trust me," said she. "He can't spend the rest of his life shut up
in that room in a state of dreadful siege. Hunger or thirst will force
him out; he'll want to buy some of those apples, or to mail a letter--"
Fifi, who sat on the arm of Sharlee's chair, laughed and coughed. "He
never writes any. And he never has gotten but one, and that came
to-night."
"Fifi, did you take your syrup before supper? Well, go and take it this
minute."
"Mother, it doesn't do any good."
"The doctor gave it to you, my child, and it's going to make you better
soon."
Sharlee followed Fifi out with troubled eyes. However, Mrs. Paynter at
once drew her back to the matter in hand.
"Sharlee, do you know what would be the very way to settle this little
difficulty? To write him a formal, businesslike letter.
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