Fifi dallied with her algebra, hoping and praying that she would not
_have_ to cough. She had been very happy all that day. There was no
particular reason for it; so it was the nicest kind of happiness, the
kind that comes from inside, which even the presence of the little
Doctor could not take away from her. Heaven knew that Fifi harbored no
grudge against Mr. Queed, and she had not forgotten what Sharlee said
about being gentle with him. But how to be gentle with so austere a
young Socrates? Raising her head upon the pretext of turning a page,
Fifi stole a hurried glance at him.
The first thing Mr. Queed had done on sitting down was to produce his
placard, silently congratulating himself on having brought it. Selecting
the book which he would be least likely to need, he shoved it well
forward, nearly halfway across the table, and against the volume propped
up his little pasteboard sign, the printed part staring straight toward
Fifi. The sign was an old one which he had chanced to pick up years ago
at the Astor Library. It read:
SILENCE
Arch-type and model of courteous warning!
When Fifi read the little Doctor's sign, her feelings were not in the
least wounded, insufficiently subtle though some particular people might
have thought its admonition to be.
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