"Honestly," said the Skeptic, sitting up and looking at her, "don't you
think her clothes are about all there is of her?"

"No," said the Gay Lady stoutly.

"Yes," said the Philosopher comfortably.

"Yes--and no," said I, as the Skeptic looked at me.

"A girl," argued the Philosopher, suddenly pulling himself out of the
hammock and beginning to pace the floor, "who could come here to this
unpretentious country place with three trunks, and then wear their
contents----Look here"--he paused in front of me and looked at me as
piercingly as somewhat short-sighted blue eyes can look in the
twilight--"did she ever wear the same thing twice?"

"I believe not," I admitted.

"A girl who could come to a place like this and make a show figure of
herself in clothes that any fool could see cost--Cæsar, what must they
cost!--and change four times a day--and keep us dancing around in
starched collars----"

"You didn't have to----"

"Yes, we did--pardon me! We did, not to be innocently--not
insolently--mistaken for farm hands. I tell you, a girl like that would
keep a man humping to furnish the wherewithal. For what," continued the
Philosopher, growing very earnest--"what, if she'd wear that sort of
clothes here, would she consider necessary for--for--visiting her rich