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."

"I won't," said the Philosopher shortly.

"Wait and see," chuckled the Skeptic. He looked at me. "Ask her,"
he added.

The Philosopher's fine blue eyes were lifted once more from his book. It
was a scientific book, and the habit of inquiry is always strong upon
your scientist. "Do _you_ dress for dinner when Miss Camellia is here?"
he asked of me. "That is--I mean in a way which requires a dinner-coat
of us?"

"I think I won't--before she comes," I said. "Afterward--I get out the
best I have."

"Which proves none too good," supplemented the Skeptic.