"
"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.
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