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.
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