But the
Philosopher appeared to retain his self-control. I caught his scientific
eye fixed upon the pearl necklace Camellia wore. It struck me that the
Philosopher and the Skeptic had temporarily exchanged characters.
In the late afternoon, at the end of the sixth day, Camellia left us.
The Skeptic and the Philosopher came to dinner in flannels--it had grown
slightly cooler. The Gay Lady and I wore things we had not worn for a
week--and I was sure the Gay Lady had never looked prettier. After
dinner, in the early dusk, we sat upon the porch. For some time we were
more or less silent. Then the Skeptic, from the depths of a bamboo
lounging chair, his legs stretching half-way across the porch in a
relaxed attitude they had not worn for a week, heaved a sigh which
seemed to struggle up from the depths of his interior.
The Philosopher rolled over in the hammock, where he had been reposing
on his back, his hands clasped under his head, and looked scrutinizingly
at his friend.
"Don't take it too hard," he counselled gently.
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