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"Camellia's husband is a downright good fellow," said the Skeptic warmly. "The fuss and feathers of his wife's hospitality can't prevent his giving you the real thing. Even Philo likes to go there particularly when Camellia is away. I presume Philo's invited now?"
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.
I found, the next evening, that my imagination had not gone far astray. Camellia's friends were certainly quite as "gay" as she had pictured them, and gorgeously dressed. I felt, as I attempted to maintain my part among them, like a country mouse suddenly precipitated into the society of a company of town-bred squirrels. Mrs. Liscombe sang for us.
When it was too dark to see her clothes or her smile I remember being once or twice distinctly bored. Now the Gay Lady don't you think she always looks well?" "Lovely," I agreed heartily. "I may not know much about it, being a man," said he modestly, "but I should naturally think the Gay Lady's clothes cost considerably less than Miss Camellia's." "Considerably."
I followed her downstairs, pondering over points of view. Eccentric because he preferred wide fires and elbow-room and outlook to Camellia's crowded and over-decorated rooms below, and his books to Mrs. Liscombe's music and Mr. Harry Hodgson's "readings." I felt that I knew Mrs. Liscombe and Mr. Hodgson and the rest quite without having seen them.
He was considerably her senior quite as much so, I decided, as the Professor was Dahlia's but on account of Camellia's woman-of-the-world air the contrast was not so pronounced. We sat through an elaborate dinner, during which I suffered more or less strain of anxiety concerning my forks.
When we arrived we were doubly glad that this was so, for the sight of the butler, admitting us, gave us much the same feeling of being badly dressed that Camellia's own presence had been wont to do. Camellia herself was as exquisitely arrayed as ever, but she looked considerably older than I had expected.
Camellia's appearance, as she came up the porch steps, while trim and attractive, gave no hint to the Philosopher's eyes, observant though they were, of what was to be expected. He had failed to note the trunks. This was not strange, for Camellia had a beautiful face, and her manner was, as always, charming.
I liked it better than any other place in the house, for it was unencumbered with useless furniture of any sort, and the view from its windows was much finer than that from below stairs. "But we're not invited up here, you observe," was Camellia's comment. "I don't come into it once a month.
My only consolation now is that Camellia married a man who cares about as much what he wears as I do." "It's not Camellia's clothes that bother me now," said Hepatica thoughtfully, "so much as the formality of her style of entertaining. My dear, she has a butler." "How horrible!" I agreed. "Can I hope to please the eye of the butler?"
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