Altogether,
it was certainly not Dahlia's fault if the Professor did not gain the
impression that both the Skeptic and the Philosopher were rejected
suitors of her own.
When they had gone, and the door had closed upon the last of the bride's
backward looks at our two men, the Skeptic dropped into a chair.
"Hepatica, will you kindly mix a few drops of soothing syrup for me?"
he requested.
But the Philosopher fell to marching up and down, his hands in his
pockets, and a deeper gloom on his brow than we had ever seen there.
Although a decade the Philosopher's elder, the Professor had long
shared bachelor quarters with him in past days; it had been only
within a year or two that the necessities of their occupations had
caused them to separate.
"Why did I ever let him go off by himself?" the Philosopher muttered
remorsefully. "Why didn't I keep an eye on him?"
"It would have made no difference," the Skeptic offered dismally as
consolation. "'Whom the gods would destroy they first make mad!' You
couldn't have prevented his madness.
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