Never had Queed seen him look less inspiring to affection. His black cap
had gotten pushed to one side, which both revealed a considerable area
of hairless head, and imparted to the whole face an odd and rakish air;
the Italian eyes did not wholly match with the softness of his voice;
the thin-lipped mouth under the long auburn mustache looked neither
sorrowful nor kind. It was Queed's lifelong habit never to look back
with vain regrets; and he needed all of his resolution now.
He stood in front of the man whose terrible secret he had surprised, and
outwardly he was as calm as ever.
"Professor Nicolovius," he said, with a faint emphasis upon the name,
"all this is as though it had never passed between us. And now let's go
and get some supper."
Surface rose to his height and took Queed's hand in a grip like iron.
His eyes glistened with sudden moisture.
"God bless you, boy! You're a _man!_"
* * * * *
It had been a memorable conversation in the life of both men, opening up
obvious after-lines of more or less momentous thought. Yet each of them,
as it happened, neglected these lines for a corollary detail of
apparently much less seriousness, and pretty nearly the same detail at
that.
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