His attitude toward money puzzled her. In one way he seemed to place too much value upon it, and in another way not enough. He overemphasized the importance of a ten-thousand-dollar salary, making that the one goal of his business efforts, and then calmly proposed squandering dollar bills on confectionery and what not as an incident to as simple an amusement as a walk in the park. He neither knew how little a dollar was worth, nor how much. She herself had learned out of hard experience, and if she could only make him understand--well, that at least furnished her with some sort of excuse for allowing this new relationship to continue. For all any one knows, there may be some divine reason that prompts women to find excuses in such matters--which, in a way, forces them willy-nilly to the making of such excuses. And yet, she had to admit that it was stretching the excuse pretty far when, a week later, she meekly allowed him to come with her on her usual Sunday outing into the country. By steady cross-examination he had made her divulge the fact that it was her interesting habit to prepare a luncheon of bread and butter and cake, and, taking a train, to spend the day by the side of a brook she had discovered. "Fine," he nodded. "Next Sunday I'll go with you." That afternoon he started making his preparations. Obviously, the first thing necessary was a luncheon basket, and on his way uptown he saw one of English wicker that took his fancy. It had compartments with bottles and a whole outfit of knives and forks and plates and little drinking-cups and what not. What it cost is nobody's business. Then he stopped at a very nice grocery store on Fifth Avenue and asked the advice of the clerk about the more substantial contents, and the clerk gave his advice very willingly. He bought some French sardines and English marmalade, and some fruit and confectionery and some strictly fresh eggs and dainty crackers and some jelly and olives and cheese and several other little things. "Now," suggested the clerk, "a small chicken roasted and served cold would be very nice." "Right," nodded Don. "I could order it for you from here." "Right again," agreed Don. It was to be sent to the house, so that Nora could have it roasted that afternoon. He accomplished these things on his way uptown, and felt quite satisfied with himself. This preparing of a picnic basket was, after all, a very simple matter. When Miss Winthrop came into the station for the nine-thirty, he was waiting for her with the big wicker basket in his hand. They rode to a little village hardly large enough to have a name, and getting out there took to the open road.