A Court of Inquiry | Page 5

Camellia was occupied with the Skeptic and the Gay Lady, "what there
is about that to upset you all."
"Don't you?" said I pityingly. Evidently, from what he had heard us say,
he had expected her to arrive in an elaborate reception gown--or
possibly in spangles and lace!
Camellia went to her room--the white room. This time I had no fears
for the embroidered linen on my dressing-table or for the purity of my
white wall. I repaired to my own room--to dress for dinner. As I passed
the porch door on my way I looked out. The Gay Lady had
vanished--so had the Skeptic. The Philosopher was walking up and
down--in white ducks. He hailed me as I passed.
"See here," he said under his breath. "I thought you people were all
guying in that talk about dressing for dinner while--while Miss
Camellia is here. But the Skeptic has gone to do it--if he's not bluffing.
Is it true? Do you mean it? We--that is--we haven't been dressing for
dinner--except, of course, you ladies seem always to--but that's
different. And it's awfully hot to-night," he added plaintively.
"Don't do it," said I hurriedly. "I don't know any reason why we
should--in the country--in July."
He looked at me doubtfully. "But is the Skeptic going to--really?"
"I presume he really is. You see--he has met Camellia before. He
knows how she will be looking when she comes down. He admires

Camellia very much, and he might possibly feel a little odd--in tennis
flannels----"
"It's queer," murmured the Philosopher. "But perhaps I'd better not be
behind in the procession, even if I wilt my collar." He fingered lovingly
the soft, rolled-over collar of his white shirt, with its loose-knotted tie,
and sighed again. Then he moved toward the stairs.
We were all on the porch when Camellia came down. The Gay Lady
had put on a white muslin--the finest, simplest thing. The Philosopher,
pushing a finger between his collar and his neck, to see if the wilting
process had begun, eyed the Gay Lady approvingly. "Whatever she
wears," he whispered to her, "she can't win over you."
The Gay Lady laughed. "Yes, she can," she declared.
* * * * *
She did. Camellia was a vision when she came floating out upon the
porch. 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.
Camellia never seemed conscious of her fine attire--that could always
truthfully be said. Although on the present occasion she was dressed as
duchesses dress for a lawn-party, she seemed supremely unconscious of
the fact. The only trouble was that the rest of us could not be
unconscious of it.
The dinner moved slowly. We all did our best, including the
Philosopher, whose collar was slowly melting, so that he had to keep
his chin well up, lest it crush the linen hopelessly beneath. The Skeptic
joked ceaselessly, but one could see that all the time he feared his
cravat might be awry. The dinner itself was a much more formal affair
than usual--somehow that always seemed necessary when Camellia

was one's guest. We were glad when it was over and we could go back
to the cool recesses of the porch.
The next morning Camellia wore an unpretentious dress of white--one
which made the thing the Gay Lady had worn at dinner the evening
before seem to her memory poor indeed. Later in the morning the
Skeptic took Camellia boating on the river, and she went up and
dressed for it in a yachting suit of white flannel. It was some slight
consolation that she came back from the river much bedraggled about
the skirts, for the boat had sprung a leak and all the Skeptic's gallantry
could not keep her dry. But this necessitated a change before luncheon,
and some of us were nearly unable to eat with Camellia sitting there in
the frock she had put on at the last minute. She was a dream in the pale
pink of it, and the Skeptic appeared to be losing his head. On the
contrary, the Philosopher was seen to examine her thoughtfully through
the eyeglasses he sometimes wears for reading, and which he had
forgotten to remove.
On the morning of the third day I discovered the Gay Lady mending a
little hole in the skirt of a tiny-flowered dimity, her bright eyes
suspiciously misty.
"I'm a g-goose, I know," she explained, smiling at me through the mist,
"but it does make