“Did she say what part of the lunch she would prefer to bring?” “She suggested the meat and also the drinks.” “Ah!” laughed Jane, “she thinks it wise to ensure something solid for her husband and brother! And we are to bring the sweets, and so on? Then do have a tomato salad; it is the most delightfully cooling thing you can have on a hot day.” “My good girl, how in the world can we pack it? I suppose you mean to take the tomatoes and make it as it is wanted; but that is rather a nuisance. My experience of water-parties is that you never land for lunch until you are so famished that to make a salad is the last thing anyone wishes, and any materials of that sort are thankfully despatched in the raw!” “But we can,” urged Jane. “How can an old person like you be supposed to understand the latest contrivances of the age? We can slice the tomatoes and put them in layers in a jam pot with the oil, vinegar, chopped parsley and onion, and tie the whole down. It will stand up quite well in a corner of the hamper, and will not upset.” “Bravo, Jenny, we will certainly have one. _Is that your own idea?_” “It is my own idea, and I intend to patent it,” said Jane, with dignity, “so please see that you do not infringe my rights. Now one of you can suggest a suitable sweet.” “It is rather difficult,” said Marion. “Shapes pack so badly, and pastry is apt to crumble. Jelly has an unfortunate habit of turning into soup just when it is wanted.” “Perhaps it will be better to stick to fresh fruit,” said Ada. “We must have something else,” said Marion meditatively. “How would it be if we took the materials for a Cicely pudding? It only takes a few minutes to make.” This suggestion met with warm approval from the two others, for the Cicely pudding was an old favourite, the brilliant invention of a mutual friend in the country; but for the recipe thereof the gentle reader must be content to wait awhile. “Very well,” said Jenny, “Marion shall make the Cicely pudding, and I will make the tomato salad. What will Ada do?” “Make the sandwiches,” said Ada promptly. “There must be sandwiches, some of anchovy and hard-boiled egg, and some of cucumber.” “Shall I order a sandwich loaf?” asked Marion. “No, I think not. I prefer ‘Florentines,’ they are handier in every way.” “Florentines” are little long-shaped milk rolls, something the shape of sponge fingers, but rather larger, and as they only require to be split and spread, much time is saved, and so it was settled. On Friday evening, whilst Ada was making the sandwiches, Marion made up and looked over the weekly accounts up to that evening. She knew there would be no time on Saturday, as they would be late back. A box of fresh eggs had been sent from her country home on the Monday previous, and this had served famously for the week’s breakfasts. This is the dinner list:— _Sunday._ Fried Mutton Cutlets. Potatoes. Green Peas. Gooseberry Shape. _Monday._