"Could we--for once--have something substantialler than sandwiches? Chickens?" She gasped at the audacity of the request, for chickens were a state dish, reserved for occasions, and in summer for some inscrutable reasons just because they were smaller cost more than ever. "Chickens cut up are so easy to eat. We needn't have knives and forks. And little cobby dinner-rolls from the confectioner's, with crisp, browny crust, cut open and stuffed with butter and potted meat, and little green pieces of lettuce. They had them that way at supper at the Masons' party, and they were superb! And cakes and fruit! Do, mother, let us have a real swagger lunch just for once!" And mother said, "Yes, darling!" like a lamb, swallowing as it were spring chickens and cobby rolls at a gulp. It was impossible in giving the invitation to the Vernons to refrain from a hint at the magnificence of the preparations, though good manners would, of course, have prompted silence on such a point. The Vernons accepted with acclamation, all except Dan, who rudely declared that he "refused with pleasure," when Darsie bearded him in his den and proffered the invitation. He was seated at his desk, for the moment the only occupant of the workroom, and his manner was not expressive of welcome to the new-comer. He was a big, heavily built youth, with a face which was oddly attractive despite irregular features and a dull complexion. Dark eyes looked at you straight and square beneath bushy eyebrows; thin lips curved into the oddest, most expressive of lines, the square chin had a fashion of projecting until it seemed to become one of the most eloquent features in his face. Close observation showed that there was a shadow of his upper lip, and rumour had it that he shaved, actually _shaved_ every morning of his life. His huge hands had a grip of steel, but it was wonderful how deft and gentle they could be on occasion. Every album and collection in the house was labelled by Dan, indexed by Dan, embellished with ornamental flourishes and headlines, which Dan's big fingers alone had the power to produce. Now he leaned an elbow on the desk, turned round on his chair, and tilted that eloquent chin in scorn. "Picnic? Not much. Hate 'em like poison! You don't want me!" "We _do_ want you! We shouldn't have asked you if we didn't. Don't be unsociable, Dan. It's an extra special occasion, and it would be so much jollier to be complete. The boys will behave better if you're there." Dan's chin tilted still an inch higher. That was of course, but-- "I hate a family crowd!" he pronounced tersely. "If there were only one or two, it wouldn't be so bad. Usual programme, I suppose--pick flowers and eat biscuits? Not much in my line--thank you all the same. Hope you'll have a good time!" "We're going to have a _real_ lunch--chickens and all sorts of good things, and walk to Oxholm across the fields. It will be much more exciting than the old picnics have been."