"I can't," said the Skeptic. "I never noticed how it rippled in the
moonlight. The big porch is my favourite haunt at the Farm. The smoking
is good there--keeps away the midges."
"Midges!" Dahlia gave a little shriek. "There aren't any midges in that
part of the country."
"There are some kinds of little, annoying insects that come around in
the evening, then," persisted the Skeptic, "just when people want to
settle down and have themselves to themselves. The Philosopher was
always more annoyed by them than I. He has a sensitive skin."
Once started on this sort of allusive nonsense it was difficult for us
to head off the Skeptic. But presently, noting the Professor's kindly
face assuming a puzzled expression as he watched his wife's kittenish
demeanour, the Skeptic desisted. It did not seem necessary for him to
demonstrate to us that, quite as of old, he could attract Dahlia to his
side and keep her there. Before the evening was over he found himself
occupied--also quite as of old--with keeping out of her way.
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