"And now you have got us all neatly docketed on your sociological operating table, I suppose?" "I am inclined to think," he said slowly, "that it is you who have got me on the operating table again." He gave her a quick glance, at once the unhappiest and the most human look that she had ever seen upon his face. "No," said she, gently,--"if you are on the table, you have put yourself there this time." "Well, good-by--" "And are you coming to see me--to pay your party-call?" "Why should I? What is the point of these conventions--these little rules--?" "Don't you _like_ being with me? Don't you get a _great deal_ of pleasure from my society?" "I have never asked myself such a question." He was gazing at her for a third time; and a startled look sprang suddenly into his eyes. It was plain that he was asking himself such a question now. A curious change passed over his face; a kind of dawning consciousness which, it was obvious, embarrassed him to the point of torture, while he resolutely declined to flinch at it. "Yes--I get pleasure from your society." The admission turned him rather white, but he saved himself by instantly flinging at her: "However, _I am no hedonist_." Sharlee retired to look up hedonist in the dictionary. * * * * * Later that evening, Mrs. Weyland and her daughter being together upstairs, the former said:-- "Sharlee, who is this Mr. Queed that you paid so much attention to on the porch this evening?" "Why, don't you know, mother? He is the assistant editor of the _Post_, and is going to be editor just the minute Mr. West retires. For you see, mother, everybody says that he writes the most wonderful articles, although I assure you, a year ago--" "Yes, but who is he? Where does he come from? Who are his people?" "Oh, I see. That is what you mean. Well, he comes from New York, where he led the most interesting literary sort of life, studying all the time, except when he was doing articles for the great reviews, or helping a lady up there to write a thesaurus. You see, he was fitting himself to compose a great work--" "Who are his people?" "Oh, that!" said Sharlee. "Well, that question is not so easy to answer as you might think. It opens up a peculiar situation: to begin with, he is a sort of an orphan, and--" "How do you mean, a sort of an orphan?" "You see, that is just where the peculiar part comes in. There is the heart of the whole mystery, and yet right there is the place where I must be reticent with you, mother, for though I know all about it, it was told to me confidentially--professionally, as my aunt's agent--and therefore--" "Do you mean that you know nothing about his people?" "I suppose it might be stated, crudely, in that way, but--" "And knowing nothing about who or what he was, you simply picked him up at the boarding-house, and admitted him to your friendship?"