little hole in the skirt of a tiny-flowered dimity, her bright eyes
suspiciously misty.

"I'm a g-goose, I know," she explained, smiling at me through
the mist, "but it does make me absurdly envious. My things look
so--so--_duddy_--beside hers."

"They're not duddy!" I cried warmly. "But I know what you mean. My
very best gown, that I had made in town by Lautier herself, seems
countrified. Don't mind. Our things will look quite right again--next
week."

"What do you suppose she will wear to-night?" sighed she.

"Heaven only knows," I answered feebly.

What she wore was a French frock which finished us all. I had fears for
the sanity of the Skeptic. I was sure he did not know what he was
eating. He could not, of course, sit with his hands in his trousers'
pockets, from time to time giving his loose change a warning jingle, to
remind himself that he could not buy her handkerchiefs. But the
Philosopher appeared to retain his self-control. I caught his scientific
eye fixed upon the pearl necklace Camellia wore. It struck me that the
Philosopher and the Skeptic had temporarily exchanged characters.

In the late afternoon, at the end of the sixth day, Camellia left us.
The Skeptic and the Philosopher came to dinner in flannels--it had grown
slightly cooler. The Gay Lady and I wore things we had not worn for a
week--and I was sure the Gay Lady had never looked prettier. After
dinner, in the early dusk, we sat upon the porch. For some time we were