HILARY'S BROWN STUDY "What do you really think, Uncle Hilary ?" Turning at his writing-table to look at the face of his young niece, Hilary Dallison answered: "My dear, we have had the same state of affairs since the beginning of the world.

There is no chemical process; so far as my knowledge goes, that does not make waste products.

What your grandfather calls our 'shadows' are the waste products of the social process.

That there is a submerged tenth is as certain as that there is an emerged fiftieth like ourselves; exactly who they are and how they come, whether they can ever be improved away, is, I think, as uncertain as anything can be." The figure of the girl seated in the big armchair did not stir.

Her lips pouted contemptuously, a frown wrinkled her forehead.
"Martin says that a thing is only impossible when we think it so." "Faith and the mountain, I'm afraid." Thyme's foot shot forth; it nearly came into contact with Miranda, the little bulldog.
"Oh, duckie!" But the little moonlight bulldog backed away.
"I hate these slums, uncle; they're so disgusting!" Hilary leaned his face on his thin hand; it was his characteristic attitude.
"They are hateful, disgusting, and heartrending.