The Skeptic bent down and
elaborately tied his shoe-ribbon. The Gay Lady regarded Dahlia sweetly,
and said, "That's surely very nice for you."
"I think," observed Dahlia, looking coyly from the Skeptic to the
Philosopher, "that I shall have to let each of you take me for a
farewell walk to-night. You first"--she indicated the Philosopher. "Or
shall it be a row for one and a walk for the other?"
She and the Philosopher strolled away toward the river. There had been
no way out for him.
"The Englishman, the Scotsman and the Irishman," began the Skeptic, in a
conversational tone, "being about to be hanged, were given their choice
of a tree. 'The oak for me,' says the Englishman. 'The Scotch elm for
mine,' says the Scotsman. 'Faith,' says the Irishman, 'I'll be afther
takin' a gooseberry bush.' 'That's too small,' says the hangman. 'I'll
wait for it to grow,' says the Irishman contentedly."
Whereat he disappeared. When Dahlia and the Philosopher returned he had
not come back. I was amazed at him, but my amazement did not produce
him, and the Philosopher accompanied Dahlia home.
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