Edgar was away; the light park-phaeton with the chestnuts had driven off at half-past eleven, Madoline looking lovely in a Madras muslin gown and a bonnet made of roses, her father content to loll in the low seat by her side while she managed the somewhat vivacious cobs. Daphne watched the carriage till it vanished at a curve of the narrow wooded drive, and then ran back to the house to plan her own campaign. ‘I will have a picnic,’ she said to herself, ‘a solitary, selfish, Robinson Crusoe-like picnic. I will have nobody but Tennyson and Lina’s collie to keep me company. Goldie and I will go trespassing, and find a sly secret corner in Charlecote Park where we can eat our luncheon. I believe it is against the law to stray from the miserable footpath; but who cares for law on Midsummer-day? I shall feel myself almost as brave as Shakespeare when he went poaching; and thank goodness there is no Justice Shallow to call me to order.’ She ran to her own room for a basket, a picturesque beehive basket, the very one she had carried—and he had carried—at Fontainebleau. What a foolish impulse it must have been which made her touch the senseless straw with her lips, remembering whose hand had held it! Then to the housekeeper’s room to forage for provisions. The wing of a chicken: a thick wedge of pound-cake; a punnet of strawberries; a bottle of lemonade; a couple of milk-rolls. Mrs. Spicer would have packed these things neatly in white paper, but Daphne bundled them into the basket anyhow. ‘Don’t trouble, you dear good soul; they are only for Goldie and me,’ she said. ‘You may just as well have things nice, miss. There, you’d have forgot the salt if I wasn’t here. And if you’re going to take that there obstreperous collie you’ll want something more substantial.’ ‘Give me a slice of beef for him then, and a couple more of your delicious rolls,’ asked Daphne coaxingly. ‘My Goldie mustn’t be starved. And be quick, like a love, for I’m in an awful hurry.’ ‘Lor, miss, when you’ve got all the day before you! You’ll be fearful lonesome.’ ‘What, with Goldie and the “Idylls of the King!”’ exclaimed Daphne, glancing downwards at her little green cloth volume. ‘Ah, well; I know when young ladies have got a nice novel to read they never feel lonesome,’ said Mrs. Spicer, filling every available corner of the basket, with which Daphne stepped off gaily to summon Goldie.