, white-frilled sunbonnets summer-girls wear
in the country.

Dahlia is very pretty, very good company, and likable from many points
of view. If only----

"Who's this coming to invade our completeness?" queried the Philosopher,
looking up from his book of trout flies. Fishing, in its scientific
aspect, presents many attractions to our Philosopher, although he spends
so much time in getting ready to do it scientifically that he seldom
finds much left in which to fish.

The Skeptic glanced at the figure coming over the lawn. Then he made a
gesture as if he were about to turn up his coat collar. He hitched
himself slightly behind one of the white pillars of the porch.

"Keep cool; you'll soon know," he replied to the Philosopher. "And once
knowing, you'll always know."

The Philosopher looked slightly mystified at this oracular information,
and gazed rather curiously at Dahlia as she came near, before he dropped
his eyes to his trout flies.

The Skeptic appeared to be absorbed in a letter which he had hastily
extracted from his pocket. It was merely a brief business communication
in type, as I could not help seeing over his shoulder, but he withdrew
his attention from it with difficulty as Dahlia paused before him. Her
first greeting was for him, although I had risen just behind him.

"Oh--how do you do, Miss Dahlia?" cried the Skeptic, getting to his feet
and receiving her outstretched hand in his own. Then he made as if to
pass her on to me, but she wouldn't be passed until she had said
something under her breath to him, smiling up into his face, her fingers
clinging to his.

"Been--er--horribly busy," I heard him murmur in reply. I thought his
hand showed symptoms of letting go before hers did.

I greeted Dahlia, introducing her to the Gay Lady, who smiled at her
from over a handkerchief she was embroidering with my initials. I
presented the Philosopher, who immediately presented his trout flies.
She scanned him closely--the Philosopher is very good-looking
(almost--but not quite--better-looking than the Skeptic)--then she
dropped down upon one of the porch cushions by his side. He politely
offered her a chair, but she insisted that she liked the cushion better,
and we found it impossible to doubt that she did. At all events she
remained upon it, close beside the Philosopher, as long as he retained
his position; and she appeared to become absorbed in the trout flies,
asking many questions, and exclaiming over