He looked at me doubtfully. "But is the Skeptic going to--really?"

"I presume he really is. You see--he has met Camellia before. He knows
how she will be looking when she comes down. He admires Camellia very
much, and he might possibly feel a little odd--in tennis flannels----"

"It's queer," murmured the Philosopher. "But perhaps I'd better not be
behind in the procession, even if I wilt my collar." He fingered
lovingly the soft, rolled-over collar of his white shirt, with its
loose-knotted tie, and sighed again. Then he moved toward the stairs.

We were all on the porch when Camellia came down. The Gay Lady had put
on a white muslin--the finest, simplest thing. The Philosopher, pushing
a finger between his collar and his neck, to see if the wilting process
had begun, eyed the Gay Lady approvingly. "Whatever she wears," he
whispered to her, "she can't win over you."

The Gay Lady laughed. "Yes, she can," she declared.

* * * * *

She did. Camellia was a vision when she came floating out upon the
porch. The Philosopher was glad he had on his dinner-coat--I saw it in
his eye. The Skeptic's tanned cheek turned a reddish shade--he looked as
if he felt pigeon-toed. The Gay Lady held her pretty head high as she
smiled approval on the guest. Camellia's effect on the Gay Lady was to
make her feel like a school-girl--she had repeatedly avowed it to me
in private.