A Court of Inquiry | Page 6

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--C?sar, 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 may not know much about it, being a man," said he modestly, "but I should naturally think the Gay Lady's clothes cost considerably less than Miss Camellia's."
"Considerably."
"Though I never really thought about them before," he owned. "I don't suppose a man usually does think much about a woman's clothes--unless he's forced to. During this last week it occurs to me we've been forced to--eh?"
"Somewhat." I was smiling to myself. I had never imagined that the Philosopher troubled himself with such matters at all.
"And I don't think," he went on, "I like being forced to spend my time speculating on the cost of anybody's clothing.--How comfortable it is on this porch! And how jolly not to have to sit up in a black coat--on a July evening!"
The Skeptic and the Gay Lady returned--after an hour. The Skeptic, as he came into the light which streamed out across the porch from the hall, looked decidedly more cheerful than when he had left us. Although it had been too