more or less silent. Then the Skeptic, from the depths of a bamboo
lounging chair, his legs stretching half-way across the porch in a
relaxed attitude they had not worn for a week, heaved a sigh which
seemed to struggle up from the depths of his interior.

The Philosopher rolled over in the hammock, where he had been reposing
on his back, his hands clasped under his head, and looked scrutinizingly
at his friend.

"Don't take it too hard," he counselled gently. "It's not worth it."

"I know it," replied the Skeptic with another sigh. "But I wish I were
worth--millions."

"Oh, no, you don't," argued the Philosopher.

The Gay Lady and I exchanged glances--through the twilight. We would
have arisen and fled, but the Skeptic caught at my skirts.

"Don't go," he begged. "I'm not really insane--only delirious. It'll
wear off."

"It will," agreed the Philosopher.

"I suppose," began the Skeptic, after some further moments of silence,
"that it's really mostly clothes."

"She's a very charming girl," said the Gay Lady quickly. "I don't blame
you."