A Court of Inquiry | Page 6

me absurdly envious. My things look
so--so--duddy--beside hers."
"They're not duddy!" I cried warmly. "But I know what you mean. My
very best gown, that I had made in town by Lautier herself, seems
countrified. Don't mind. Our things will look quite right again--next
week."
"What do you suppose she will wear to-night?" sighed she.
"Heaven only knows," I answered feebly.
What she wore was a French frock which finished us all. I had fears for
the sanity of the Skeptic. I was sure he did not know what he was
eating. He could not, of course, sit with his hands in his trousers'

pockets, from time to time giving his loose change a warning jingle, to
remind himself that he could not buy her handkerchiefs. But the
Philosopher appeared to retain his self-control. I caught his scientific
eye fixed upon the pearl necklace Camellia wore. It struck me that the
Philosopher and the Skeptic had temporarily exchanged characters.
In the late afternoon, at the end of the sixth day, Camellia left us. The
Skeptic and the Philosopher came to dinner in flannels--it had grown
slightly cooler. The Gay Lady and I wore things we had not worn for a
week--and I was sure the Gay Lady had never looked prettier. After
dinner, in the early dusk, we sat upon the porch. For some time we
were more or less silent. Then the Skeptic, from the depths of a
bamboo lounging chair, his legs stretching half-way across the porch in
a relaxed attitude they had not worn for a week, heaved a sigh which
seemed to struggle up from the depths of his interior.
The Philosopher rolled over in the hammock, where he had been
reposing on his back, his hands clasped under his head, and looked
scrutinizingly at his friend.
"Don't take it too hard," he counselled gently. "It's not worth it."
"I know it," replied the Skeptic with another sigh. "But I wish I were
worth--millions."
"Oh, no, you don't," argued the Philosopher.
The Gay Lady and I exchanged glances--through the twilight. We
would have arisen and fled, but the Skeptic caught at my skirts.
"Don't go," he begged. "I'm not really insane--only delirious. It'll wear
off."
"It will," agreed the Philosopher.
"I suppose," began the Skeptic, after some further moments of silence,
"that it's really mostly clothes."

"She's a very charming girl," said the Gay Lady quickly. "I don't blame
you."
"Honestly," said the Skeptic, sitting up and looking at her, "don't you
think her clothes are about all there is of her?"
"No," said the Gay Lady stoutly.
"Yes," said the Philosopher comfortably.
"Yes--and no," said I, as the Skeptic looked at me.
"A girl," argued the Philosopher, suddenly pulling himself out of the
hammock and beginning to pace the floor, "who could come here to
this unpretentious country place with three trunks, and then wear their
contents----Look here"--he paused in front of me and looked at me as
piercingly as somewhat short-sighted blue eyes can look in the
twilight--"did she ever wear the same thing twice?"
"I believe not," I admitted.
"A girl who could come to a place like this and make a show figure of
herself in clothes that any fool could see cost--Cæsar, what must they
cost!--and change four times a day--and keep us dancing around in
starched collars----"
"You didn't have to----"
"Yes, we did--pardon me! We did, not to be innocently--not
insolently--mistaken for farm hands. I tell you, a girl like that would
keep a man humping to furnish the wherewithal. For what," continued
the Philosopher, growing very earnest--"what, if she'd wear that sort of
clothes here, would she consider necessary for--for--visiting her rich
friends? Tell me that!"
We could not tell him that. We did not try.
The Gay Lady was pinching one of her little flowered dimity ruffles
into plaits with an agitated thumb and finger. I was sure the Skeptic's

present state of mind was of more moment to her than she would ever
let appear to anybody.
The Skeptic rose slowly from his chair.
"Will you walk down the garden path with me?" he asked the Gay
Lady.
They sauntered slowly away into the twilight.
* * * * *
The Philosopher came and sat down by me.
"He's not really hit," said he presently; "he's only temporarily upset. I
was a trifle bowled over myself. She's certainly a stunning girl. But
when I try to recall what she and I talked about when we sat out here
together, at such times as he was willing to leave her in my company, I
have really no recollection. When it was too dark to see her clothes--or
her smile--I remember being once or twice distinctly bored. Now--the
Gay Lady--don't you think she always looks well?"
"Lovely," I agreed heartily.
"I