Is it
true? Do you mean it? We--that is--we haven't been dressing for
dinner--except, of course, you ladies seem always to--but that's
different. And it's awfully hot to-night," he added plaintively.
"Don't do it," said I hurriedly. "I don't know any reason why we
should--in the country--in July."
He looked at me doubtfully. "But is the Skeptic going to--really?"
"I presume he really is. You see--he has met Camellia before. He knows
how she will be looking when she comes down. He admires Camellia very
much, and he might possibly feel a little odd--in tennis flannels----"
"It's queer," murmured the Philosopher. "But perhaps I'd better not be
behind in the procession, even if I wilt my collar." He fingered
lovingly the soft, rolled-over collar of his white shirt, with its
loose-knotted tie, and sighed again. Then he moved toward the stairs.
We were all on the porch when Camellia came down. The Gay Lady had put
on a white muslin--the finest, simplest thing. The Philosopher, pushing
a finger between his collar and his neck, to see if the wilting process
had begun, eyed the Gay Lady approvingly.
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