Then the Skeptic fired up his diminutive gas grate--which is much
better than none at all--and turned off the electrics. We sat before
the cheery little glow, luxuriating in a sense of relaxation.
"It seems ungracious, somehow to discuss people, when one has just left
their hospitality," suggested Hepatica, as the Skeptic showed signs of
letting loose the dogs of war.
"Not between ourselves, dear," affirmed the Skeptic. "We four constitute
a private Court of Inquiry into the Condition of Our Friends. When I
think of the Judge----"
"He has his own way, after all, when it comes to refusing to join in the
sort of thing that pleases Camellia," said I.
"Of course he does. He's too much of a man not to have it. But living
upstairs while my wife lives downstairs isn't precisely my ideal of
married happiness."
The Philosopher shoved his hands far down into his pockets and laid his
head back, gazing up at the ceiling. "What puzzles me," he mused, "is
the attraction such a woman has, at the start, for such a man.
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