ing out two folding camp-tables, covering them with a linen
cloth, and opening the picnic basket. Claire had to admit that she
wished that she could steal the picnic basket for Milt. There were
vacuum bottles of hot coffee. There were sandwiches of anchovy and _pate
de foie gras_. There were cream cakes with almonds hidden in the suave
cream, and there was a chicken salad with huge chunks of pure white meat
wallowing in a sea of mayonnaise.

When the gorging was done and the cigarettes brought out (the chauffeur
passed a spirit lamp), they stretched on rubber blankets, and groaned a
little, and spoke well of nature and the delights of roughing it.

"What is it? What's wrong? They're so--oh, so polite. They don't mean
what they say and they don't dare to say what they mean. Is that it?"
worried Claire.

She started. She discovered that she was looking at a bristle of
rope-colored hair and a grin projected from the shelter of a manzanita
bush.

"For the----" she gasped. She was too startled to be able to decide what
was for-the. She spoke judiciously to Jeff Saxton about Upper Montclair,
the subway, and tennis. She rose to examine the mountains, strolled
away, darted down a gully, and pounced on Milt Daggett with:

"How in heaven's name----"

"Found out where you-all were going. Look! Got a bug! Rented it. Come
on! Let's duck! Drive back with me!" At the end of the gully was a new
Teal bug, shinier than the ancient lost chariot, but equally gay and
uncomfortable.

"Can't. Like to, but---- Be awfully rude to them. Won't do that--not
more than is good for their souls--even for you. Now don't be sulky."

"I won't. Nev' be sulky again, because you're crazy about me, and I
don't have to be sulky."

"Oh, I am, am I! Good heavens, the inconceivable conceit of the child!"

She turned her back. He darted to her, caught her hands behind her,
kissed her hair, and whispered, "You are!"

"I am not!"

"Well then, you're not. Lord, you're sweet! Your hair smells like
cinnamon and clean kittens. You'd rather go bumping off in my flivver
than sailing in that big Loco they've got there."

"Yes," defiantly, "I would, and I'm ashamed of myself. I'm a throw-back
to my horrid ancestor, the betting hostler."

"Probably. I'm a throw-back to my ancestor the judge. I'll train you to
meet my fine friends."

"Well--upon--my--word--I---- Oh, do stop being idiotic. We talk like
children. You reduce me to the rank of a gibbering scho