"Did you say Camellia is going to stop here on her way home?" asked the Gay Lady.
"For a few days," I assented.
The Gay Lady was standing in front of the closet in her room, in which hung a row of frocks, on little hangers covered with pale blue ribbon. She sighed pensively as she gazed at the garments. Then she looked at me with a smile. "Would you mind if I keep to my room while Camellia is here?" she asked.
"I should mind very much," said I. "Besides, I've only two good dresses myself."
I went down to the porch. "Camellia is going to stop and make us a short visit on her way home from the South," I announced.
The Skeptic sat up. "Great guns!" he ejaculated. "I must send all my trousers to be pressed."
"Who's Camellia?" queried the Philosopher, looking up calmly from his book.
"Wait and see," replied the Skeptic.
"Probably I shall," agreed the Philosopher. "Meanwhile a little information might not come amiss. Sending all one's trousers to be pressed at once sounds to me serious. Is the lady a connoisseur in men's attire?"
"She may or may not be," said the Skeptic. "The effect is the same. At sight of her my cravat gets under my ear, my coat becomes shapeless, my shoes turn pigeon-toed. We have to dress for dinner every night when Miss Camellia is here."