leave of me with
formal politeness. I understood them, and I did not mind. A wise woman
lets a man go--that he may return.

They came back just as twilight darkened into night, and sat down at my
feet on the step, shoulder to shoulder, like the good comrades that they
were. I wondered if they had been discussing the subject which the Lad
had introduced.

"How much," inquired the Philosopher quite suddenly, "do you suppose it
would cost to dress a girl like Miss Camellia?"

"I've really no idea," I answered, since the question seemed directed at
me. "It depends on a number of things. There are girls so clever with
their needles that they can produce very remarkable effects for a
comparatively small amount of money."

"Is she one of them?"

"I don't know."

"I fancy you do," was his comment. Presently he went on again. "You see,
I don't know much about all this," he declared. "So I've had rather an
observant eye on--on these young ladies you've had here from time to
time this summer, and I confess I'm filled with curiosity. Would you
mind telling me what you think the average girl of good family, and well
brought up, has in her mind's eye as a desirable future--I mean for the
next few years after school?--I don't know that I make myself clear.
What I want to get at is--You see, the great thing a young chap thinks
about is what he is going to make of himself--and how to do it. It
struck me as rather odd that not one of those girls seemed to have any
particular end in view--at least, that ever came out in her
conversation."

I couldn't help smiling, his tone was so serious.

The Skeptic chuckled. He had put up his pipe, and was sitting with his
hands clasped behind his head, as he leaned against one of the great
pillars of the porch. "They have one, just the same," he vouchsafed. "He
who runs may read."

The Philosopher regarded him thoughtfully, through the half-light from
the hall lamp. "I noticed you did a good deal of running, first and
last," he observed. "I suppose you read before you ran--unless you have
eyes in the back of your head. Well," he continued, "you can't make me
believe that all girls are so anxious to make a good impression, or they
wouldn't do some of the things they do."

"For instance?" I suggested, having become curious myself. Never before,
in an acquaintance dating far back, had I heard the Philosopher hold
forth upon this subject.

"They make themselves conspicuous," said he prompt