whirr in the tiny hall,
and the Skeptic go to answer it. Then I heard voices again--men's
voices. There was an interval. Then came a small knock at my door. I
opened it to Hepatica.

"The Philosopher has come back," she whispered. I had not lit my
light--I had closed my window and had been sitting by it, my elbows on
the sill. Hepatica put out her hand and felt of me. "Oh, you haven't
undressed," she said. "Then won't you go out and see him? He seemed so
disappointed when Don said you had gone. It seems he's called out of
town quite suddenly--he's afraid he may not be back before you go--he
says he didn't have a chance to tell you about it this evening."

There was no help for it--I had no excuse. I did not dare to snap on my
light and look at myself. I put my hands to my hair to feel if it was
still snug; then I went.

Hepatica had mercifully turned off all the lights but the rose-shaded
drop-light on the reading-table and two of the electric candles in the
dining-room. It was a relief to feel the glare gone. The air from the
window had freshened me. The Philosopher stood by the reading-table,
upon which he had laid his hat. His overcoat was on a chair. Evidently
he was not waiting merely to say good-bye and go.

The Skeptic, upon my entrance, immediately crossed the room to the door
of the hall, upon which his own room opened. "You people will excuse
me," he said. "I don't know _why_ I am so sleepy." His tone was
peculiar, and I recognized that he was quoting my words of a half-hour
before. "It only came over me since the door closed on our guests. And I
have to be up in the morning at the usual hour. But don't let that hurry
you, Philo, old man." And he vanished.

The Philosopher looked as if he did not mean to let it hurry him. He
drew his chair near mine, facing me, after a fashion he has, and looked
at me in silence for a minute.

"You are tired," he said.

"A little. The rooms were very warm."

"They were. They made the violets droop, I see."

I put up my hand. "Yes. I meant to take them off."

"Perhaps you don't like violets. If I could have found a bunch of
sweet-williams to send you instead, like those in your own garden, I
should have preferred it. I know what you like among summer flowers, but
with these florist's offerings I'm not so familiar. I'm afraid I'm not
much versed in the sending of flowers."

"Did you send these?" I put my hand up to them again. They certainly
were drooping sadly. Pe