Next day, however, the clouds partially disperse. Naturally forgiving, I find a difficulty in maintaining wrath for any lengthened period, and Marmaduke appears only too glad to meet my advances. The third day, indeed, all seems forgotten; our animosity is laid, and peace is proclaimed, This time, however, there has been no explanation, no kindly reconciliation, and only Marmaduke and I know that underneath our perfect amiability lies a thin stratum of ice, that any chance cold may harden into hopeless solidity. ----- "Phyllis, we have agreed to let the birds hold high holiday to-morrow, if you will promise us a picnic. It seems a pity to let this last glimpse of summer go by unmarked," says Marmaduke, speaking to me from the foot of the dinner-table. "Oh, how delightful!" cry I, flushing with pleasure, and dodging all the flowers on the table to got a good look at his face. As he is also carefully dodging them in his turn, with the like laudable purpose of beholding me, it is some time before we manage it. When our eyes do meet we smile sympathetically. I hardly know why I do so, but as I withdraw my gaze from Marmaduke I turn upon Sir Mark Gore, who sits at my right hand. The curiously cold, calculating expression I meet startles and somewhat displeases me. "Do you not like picnics!" I ask him abruptly. "Very much indeed. Why should you think otherwise?" "Your expression just now was not one of pleasure." "No? It ought to have been. I was inwardly admiring the charming enthusiasm with which you received your husband's proposition." "Oh!" return I, curtly. "Yes. As I told you once before, when I am pleased I show it; I am more than pleased now; I am enchanted," smiling brightly at the thought. "Do you know I have not been at a picnic since I was a girl--that is, unmarried." "Not since then? Why, you must almost forget what a picnic means. Shall I refresh your memory? It means salted pies, and sugared fowl, and indescribable jellies and warm fluids, and your knees in your mouth, and flies. I don't myself know anything more enjoyable than a picnic." "Dear me, how I pity you! Whose picnics have you been at, may I ask?" inquire I with scorn. "To-morrow, I promise you, you shall see a very different specimen." To-morrow comes to us as fine as though bespoken. Lady Blanche, walking into the breakfast-room in the most charming of morning robes, addresses herself to my husband. "Well, most noble, what are your plans for to-day?" she asks, with a pretty show of animation. Though I am in the room, and she knows it, she takes no notice of me whatever--does not even trouble herself so far as to bestow upon me the courtesy of a "good-morning." She looks up at Marmaduke, and smiles at him, and awaits his answer as though he alone were to be consulted. Evidently in her opinion the mistress of the house is of no importance a--mere nonentity in fact; the master is everything.