"Whatever she wears," he
whispered to her, "she can't win over you."
The Gay Lady laughed. "Yes, she can," she declared.
* * * * *
She did. Camellia was a vision when she came floating out upon the
porch. The Philosopher was glad he had on his dinner-coat--I saw it in
his eye. The Skeptic's tanned cheek turned a reddish shade--he looked as
if he felt pigeon-toed. The Gay Lady held her pretty head high as she
smiled approval on the guest. Camellia's effect on the Gay Lady was to
make her feel like a school-girl--she had repeatedly avowed it to me
in private.
Camellia never seemed conscious of her fine attire--that could always
truthfully be said. Although on the present occasion she was dressed as
duchesses dress for a lawn-party, she seemed supremely unconscious of
the fact. The only trouble was that the rest of us could not be
unconscious of it.
The dinner moved slowly. We all did our best, including the Philosopher,
whose collar was slowly melting, so that he had to keep his chin well
up, lest it crush the linen hopelessly beneath.
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