Here,
doubtless, would some day stand the colossal work of Queed. At the big
desk sat the Rev. Mr. Dayne, a practical idealist of no common sort, a
kind-faced man with a crisp brown mustache. At the typewriter-table sat
Sharlee Weyland, writing firm letters to thirty-one county almshouse
keepers. It was hard upon noon. Sharlee looked tired and sad about the
eyes. She had not been to supper at Mrs. Paynter's for months, but she
went there nearly every afternoon from the office to see Fifi, who had
been in bed for four weeks.
The Department door opened, with no premonitory knock, and in walked, of
all people, Mr. Queed.
Sharlee came forward very cordially to greet the visitor, and at once
presented him to the Secretary. However Queed dismissed Mr. Dayne very
easily, and gazing at Sharlee sharply through his spectacles, said:
"I should like to speak to you in private a moment."
"Certainly," said Sharlee.
"I'll step into the hall," said kind-faced Mr. Dayne.
"No, no. Indeed you mustn't. We will."
Sharlee faced the young man in the sunlit hail with sympathetic
expectancy and some curiosity in her eyes.
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