A Court of Inquiry | Page 4

Althea again some time. She really has a great many lovely
qualities, as I said to the Skeptic. But there is a little room I have,
which I do not call a guest-room, into which I shall put Althea. It has a
sort of chocolate paper on the walls, on which I do not think the marks
of matches would much show, and it has a general suitableness to this
particular guest. I have sometimes harboured small boys there, for the
toilet appointments are done in red on brown linen, and curling irons
could be laid on them without serious damage. And I've no doubt that
she would like that room quite as well.

II
CAMELLIA
You thought to break a country heart For pastime, ere you went to town.
--Tennyson.

"Did you say Camellia is going to stop here on her way home?" asked
the Gay Lady.
"For a few days," I assented.
The Gay Lady was standing in front of the closet in her room, in which
hung a row of frocks, on little hangers covered with pale blue ribbon.
She sighed pensively as she gazed at the garments. Then she looked at
me with a smile. "Would you mind if I keep to my room while
Camellia is here?" she asked.
"I should mind very much," said I. "Besides, I've only two good dresses
myself."
I went down to the porch. "Camellia is going to stop and make us a
short visit on her way home from the South," I announced.
The Skeptic sat up. "Great guns!" he ejaculated. "I must send all my
trousers to be pressed."
"Who's Camellia?" queried the Philosopher, looking up calmly from his
book.
"Wait and see," replied the Skeptic.
"Probably I shall," agreed the Philosopher. "Meanwhile a little
information might not come amiss. Sending all one's trousers to be
pressed at once sounds to me serious. Is the lady a connoisseur in men's
attire?"
"She may or may not be," said the Skeptic. "The effect is the same. At
sight of her my cravat gets under my ear, my coat becomes shapeless,
my shoes turn pigeon-toed. We have to dress for dinner every night
when Miss Camellia is here."
"I won't," said the Philosopher shortly.
"Wait and see," chuckled the Skeptic. He looked at me. "Ask her," he
added.

The Philosopher's fine blue eyes were lifted once more from his book.
It was a scientific book, and the habit of inquiry is always strong upon
your scientist. "Do you dress for dinner when Miss Camellia is here?"
he asked of me. "That is--I mean in a way which requires a dinner-coat
of us?"
"I think I won't--before she comes," I said. "Afterward--I get out the
best I have."
"Which proves none too good," supplemented the Skeptic.
"It's July," said the Philosopher thoughtfully. He looked down at his
white ducks. "Couldn't you wire her not to come?" he suggested after a
moment.
The Skeptic grinned at me. I shook my head. He shook his head.
"We don't want her not to come," he said, more cheerfully. "She's
worth it. To see her is a liberal education. To clothe her would be ruin
and desolation. Brace up, Philo--she's certainly worth all the agony of
mind she may cause you. I only refrain from falling head over ears in
love with her by keeping my hand in my pocket, feeling over my loose
change and reminding myself that it's all I have--and it wouldn't buy
her a handkerchief."
The Gay Lady spent the morning freshening her frocks--which were
somehow never anything but fresh, no matter how much she wore them.
It was true that there were not very many of them, and that none of
them had cost very much money, but they were fascinating frocks
nevertheless, and she had so many clever ways of varying them with
knots of ribbon and frills of lace, that one never grew tired of seeing her
wear them.
The Skeptic sent several pairs of trousers to be pressed and a bundle of
other things to be laundered. I got out a gown I had expected to wear
only on state occasions, and did something to the sleeves. The
Philosopher was the only person who remained unaffected by the news
that Camellia was coming. We envied him his calm.

* * * * *
Camellia arrived. Three trunks arrived at the same time. Camellia's
appearance, as she came up the porch steps, while trim and attractive,
gave no hint to the Philosopher's eyes, observant though they were, of
what was to be expected. He had failed to note the trunks. This was not
strange, for Camellia had a beautiful face, and her manner was, as
always, charming.
"I don't see," said the Philosopher in my ear, at a moment when