that he had boldly asked her if she didn't want to help.

"I hope I shan't break anything," murmured Azalea, accepting a
dish-towel. The Skeptic took another. "Oh, no," he assured her. "That
delicate touch of yours--why, I never heard anybody who could play
_pianissimo_--_legato_--_cantabile_--like you. You wouldn't break a
spun-glass rainbow."

Azalea did not break anything. I think it was because she did not dry
more than one article to the Skeptic's three and the Gay Lady's six.
Once she dropped a china cup, but the Skeptic caught it and presented it
to her with a bow. "Don't mention it," said he. "I'm an old
first-baseman."

The Philosopher came through the kitchen with a broom and dustpan. He
had been attempting to sweep the dining-room floor--which is of
hardwood, with a centre rug--and had had a bad time of it. The Skeptic
jeered at him and mentioned the implements he should have used. Azalea
looked at them both wonderingly.

"How in the world do you men come to know so much about housework?" she
inquired, wiping a single teaspoon diligently. The Gay Lady had just
lifted a dozen out of the steaming pan for her, but Azalea had laid them
all down on the table, and was polishing them one by one.

"I find it comes in handy," said the Skeptic. "You never stay anywhere,
you know, that sooner or later something doesn't happen unexpectedly
to the domestic machinery. Besides, I like to show off--don't you? See
here"--he turned to me. There was a twinkle in his wicked eye. "See
here, why not let Miss Azalea and me be responsible for the dinner