He tried to take her hand, but she brushed by him and ran toward the dining room, where she bade him turn on the lights and wait while she foraged. “Stay right here, please! I will bring the things myself; don’t expect too much, but I think--I think there will be cold chicken.” “The strong drink is usually kept locked--you must have the key.” “Nothing but milk, or distilled water! You may have either. You wait here--it would look better.” She pursed her lips and bent her head with the slightest of inclinations toward the library. When he heard her at the swinging pantry door a moment later he sprang up and flung it open. She carried a fowl and bread, and told him he might fetch knives and forks and other essentials of their feast. She was in a laughing mood now, and in the midst of their preparations, she ran to the hall door and listened, like a child about to ravish the jam pots. The grace of her slight figure, her pretty way of catching up her skirts, the mockery of her anxiety lest they be discovered, brought them into a new and delightful intimacy. “Do you remember?” asked Wayne, crossing his legs at ease and nibbling the sandwich she had made for him, “do you remember our little picnic on the rocks up there at Struby’s Cove, when we got lost on the drive home? There was chicken then--perhaps it was a distant cousin of this one. All chickens are sacred henceforth!” “And there was a new moon and the wind blew in cold from the sea and the pine grove by the shore was dark and sad.” “And I kissed you that night--the first time!” She was serious instantly and held up her hand warningly. “Don’t be naughty; that was a long time ago!” “Two years last August, which is not so very long!” “Long enough to be forgotten, though.” “I am not in the habit of forgetting pleasant things. You were a being to worship that night.” “Your worship was pretty short; you took that Philadelphia widow driving the next day.” “But we didn’t have a picnic and get lost.” “Decidedly not, as she was from Philadelphia!” And they laughed softly, in the subdued key of their talk. A little later Colonel Craighill was heard at the library door bidding the stenographer good night. Mrs. Craighill rose, clutching her plate and glass. “Service was for one only,” she whispered, and on this hint Wayne restored her chair to its place against the wall, and with a little nod, a shrug of her shoulders, a pretty lifting of the brows, she vanished through the pantry door and took flight upward by way of the back stairs. Wayne heard the click of the buttons in the hall as his father turned off the lights, and a moment later Colonel Craighill appeared at the door with a handful of papers.