"It's not your fault that I'm not," grunted the Philosopher.
He dropped down upon the porch step in an exhausted way.
The Gay Lady rose.
"The air is making me sleepy," said she in her musically sweet voice. "Good-night."
The Skeptic and the Philosopher looked after her retreating figure even after it ceased to be visible, drifting down the wide, central hall.
"The worst of it is," grumbled the Skeptic, "that an exhibition of that sort of thing always makes the other kind draw off, for fear we may possibly think they're in the same class."
I, too, now said good-night, and went away to let them have it out between them.
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