"Oh—how do you do, Miss Dahlia?" cried the Skeptic, getting to his feet and receiving her outstretched hand in his own. Then he made as if to pass her on to me, but she wouldn't be passed until she had said something under her breath to him, smiling up into his face, her fingers clinging to his.
"Been—er—horribly busy," I heard him murmur in reply. I thought his hand showed symptoms of letting go before hers did.
I greeted Dahlia, introducing her to the Gay Lady, who smiled at her from over a handkerchief she was embroidering with my initials. I presented the Philosopher, who immediately presented his trout flies. She scanned him closely—the Philosopher is very good-looking (almost—but not quite—better-looking than the Skeptic)—then she dropped down upon one of the porch cushions by his side. He politely offered her a chair, but she insisted that she liked the cushion better, and we found it impossible to doubt that she did. At all events she remained upon it, close beside the Philosopher, as long as he retained his position; and she appeared to become absorbed in the trout flies, asking many questions, and exclaiming over some of them in a way which showed her to be of a most sympathetic disposition.
Finally the Philosopher seized upon an opportunity and rose. "Well," he observed, "I believe I'll go and try my luck."
Dahlia looked up at him. Her pretty face took on a beseeching expression.
The Philosopher regarded her uncomprehendingly.
"You will excuse——" he began.
But Dahlia did not let him finish. "I simply love to go fishing," she said softly.
"Do you?" said the Philosopher, blinking stupidly. "It is great sport, I think, myself."