“I’d give something to be present when the question is asked!” Arthur whispered to me, as, at a signal from Lady Muriel, we moved on to where the hampers had been collected, and devoted ourselves to the more _substantial_ business of the day. We ‘waited’ on ourselves, as the modern barbarism (combining two good things in such a way as to secure the discomforts of both and the advantages of neither) of having a picnic with servants to wait upon you, had not yet reached this out-of-the-way region—and of course the gentlemen did not even take their places until the ladies had been duly provided with all imaginable creature-comforts. Then I supplied myself with a plate of something solid and a glass of something fluid, and found a place next to Lady Muriel. It had been left vacant—apparently for Arthur, as a distinguished stranger: but he had turned shy, and had placed himself next to the young lady in spectacles, whose high rasping voice had already cast loose upon Society such ominous phrases as “Man is a bundle of Qualities!”, “the Objective is only attainable through the Subjective!”. Arthur was bearing it bravely: but several faces wore a look of alarm, and I thought it high time to start some less metaphysical topic. “In my nursery days,” I began, “when the weather didn’t suit for an out-of-doors picnic, we were allowed to have a peculiar kind, that we enjoyed hugely. The table cloth was laid _under_ the table, instead of upon it: we sat round it on the floor: and I believe we really enjoyed that extremely uncomfortable kind of dinner more than we ever did the orthodox arrangement!” “I’ve no doubt of it,” Lady Muriel replied. “There’s nothing a well-regulated child hates so much as regularity. I believe a really healthy boy would thoroughly enjoy Greek Grammar—if only he might stand on his head to learn it! And your carpet-dinner certainly spared you _one_ feature of a picnic, which is to me its chief drawback.” “The chance of a shower?” I suggested. “No, the chance—or rather the certainty—of _live_ things occurring in combination with one’s food! _Spiders_ are _my_ bugbear. Now my father has _no_ sympathy with that sentiment—_have_ you, dear?” For the Earl had caught the word and turned to listen. “To each his sufferings, all are men,” he replied in the sweet sad tones that seemed natural to him: “each has his pet aversion.” “But you’ll never guess _his_!” Lady Muriel said, with that delicate silvery laugh that was music to my ears. I declined to attempt the impossible. “He doesn’t like _snakes_!” she said, in a stage whisper. “Now, isn’t _that_ an unreasonable aversion? Fancy not liking such a dear, coaxingly, _clingingly_ affectionate creature as a snake!” “Not like _snakes_!” I exclaimed. “Is such a thing possible?” “No, he _doesn’t_ like them,” she repeated with a pretty mock-gravity. “He’s not _afraid_ of them, you know. But he doesn’t _like_ them. He says they’re too waggly!”