se," I added, somewhat
annoyed, for I thought Brande was laughing at me.

"Say, of Time, and I agree with you," he replied, careless of my
astonishment.

I did not answer him for some moments.

This man Brande was young in years, but middle-aged in the expression of
his pale, intellectual face, and old--if age be synonymous with
knowledge--in his ideas. His knowledge, indeed, was so exhaustive that
the scientific pleasantries to which he was prone could always be
justified, dialectically at least, by him when he was contradicted.
Those who knew him well did not argue with him. I was always stumbling
into intellectual pitfalls, for I had only known him since the steamer
left New York.

As to myself, there is little to be told. My history prior to my
acquaintance with Brande was commonplace. I was merely an active,
athletic Englishman, Arthur Marcel by name. I had studied medicine, and
was a doctor in all but the degree. This certificate had been dispensed
with owing to an unexpected legacy, on receipt of which I determined to
devote it to the furtherance of my own amusement. In the pursuit of this
object, I had visited many lands and had become familiar with most of
the beaten tracks of travel. I was returning to England after an absence
of three years spent in aimless roaming. My age was thirty-one years,
and my salient characteristic at the time was to hold fast by anything
that interested me, until my humour changed. Brande's conversational
vagaries had amused me on the voyage. His extraordinary comment on the
Universe decided me to cement our shipboard acquaintance before reaching
port.

"That explanation of yours," I said, lighting a fresh cigar, and
returning to a subject which I had so recently tried to shelve, "isn't
it rather vague?"

"For the present it must serve," he answered absently.

To force him into admitting that his phrase was only a thoughtless
exclamation, or induce him to defend it, I said:

"It does not serve any reasonable purpose. It adds nothing to knowledge.
As it stands, it is neither academic nor practical."

Brande looked at me earnestly for a moment, and then said gravely:

"The academic value of the explanation will be shown to you if you will
join a society I have founded; and its practicalness will soon be made
plain whether you join or not."

"What do you call this club of yours?" I asked.

"We do not call it a club. We call it a Society--the _Cui Bono_
Society," he answ