On the contrary, the
Philosopher was seen to examine her thoughtfully through the eyeglasses
he sometimes wears for reading, and which he had forgotten to remove.
On the morning of the third day I discovered the Gay Lady mending a
little hole in the skirt of a tiny-flowered dimity, her bright eyes
suspiciously misty.
"I'm a g-goose, I know," she explained, smiling at me through
the mist, "but it does make me absurdly envious. My things look
so--so--_duddy_--beside hers."
"They're not duddy!" I cried warmly. "But I know what you mean. My
very best gown, that I had made in town by Lautier herself, seems
countrified. Don't mind. Our things will look quite right again--next
week."
"What do you suppose she will wear to-night?" sighed she.
"Heaven only knows," I answered feebly.
What she wore was a French frock which finished us all. I had fears for
the sanity of the Skeptic. I was sure he did not know what he was
eating. He could not, of course, sit with his hands in his trousers'
pockets, from time to time giving his loose change a warning jingle, to
remind himself that he could not buy her handkerchiefs.
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