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?"

"Picking-up is not the word that the most careful mothers employ, in
reference to their daughters' attitude toward young men. Mother, don't
you understand? I'm a democrat."

"It is not a thing," said Mrs. Weyland, with some asperity, "for a lady
to be."

Sharlee, fixing her hair in the back before the mirror, laughed long and
merrily. "Do you dare--do you _dare_ look your own daughter in the eye
and say she is no lady?"

"Do you like this young man?" Mrs. Weyland continued.

"He interests me, heaps and heaps."

Mrs. Weyland sighed. "I can only say," she observed, sinking into a
chair and picking up her book, "that such goings on were never heard of
in my day."