large wallet, and from a mass of papers selected a second envelope.

"You mention references. Possibly these will impress you as even better
than friends."

Sharlee, seated on the arm of Major Brooke's chair, ran through the
clippings: two advertisements of a well-known "heavy" review announcing
articles by Mr. Queed; a table of contents torn from a year-old number
of the _Political Science Quarterly_ to the same effect; an editorial
from a New York newspaper commenting on one of these articles and
speaking laudatorily of its author; a private letter from the editor of
the "heavy" urging Mr. Queed to write another article on a specified
subject, "Sociology and Socialism."

To Sharlee the exhibit seemed surprisingly formidable, but the wonder in
her eyes was not at that. Her marvel was for the fact that the man who
was capable of so cruelly elbowing little Fifi out of his way should be
counted a follower of the tenderest and most human of sciences.

"They impress me," she said, returning his envelope; "but not as better
than friends."

"Ah? A matter of taste. Now--"

"I had always supposed," continued the girl, looking at him, "that
sociology had a close relation with life--in fact, that it was based on
a conscious recognition of--the brotherhood of man."

"Your supposition is doubtless sound, though you express it so loosely."