He made his usual unsatisfactory reply. “Well, what do you think?” Of course the proper answer is, “I _adore_ you.” She knew, by now, that he never would make it; probably because he was aware she craved it. “I’m writing Miss Clyde to come to the Picnic.” He looked a little awkward. “Needn’t do that, I wrote to her yesterday. I said you were busy and wanted me to ask her.” “Well, of all things----” She curbed herself savagely. She _wouldn’t_ lose her temper. Damn, damn, damn ... his damned impudence. “When is she coming?” “I don’t know yet. To-morrow morning, I dare say.” “Well, then, we’ll have the Picnic to-morrow, get it over with.” He began to say something, put out his hand, but she brushed fiercely past him and ran into the dining room. She tore her letter into shreds, together with the clean sheet she had brought down. The room was full of a warm irritating buzz. “George!” she cried angrily, with undeniable command. “Come here and put out this damned bee!” III The kitchen was hot, flies were zigzagging just under the ceiling, swerving silly triangles of ecstasy in the rising savour of roast and sizzling gravy. “Lizzie, you _must_ keep the screen door latched. There was a big bee in the dining room. That’s how they get in.--Where are the children?” “It’s that man, he always leaves it open.” “The ice man? Well, speak to him about it.” “No, ma’am, the one in the garden. The one Nounou took ’em down to the beach to get away from. She didn’t think he was quite right.” What on earth was Lizzie talking about? “A man in the garden? What’s he doing here?” “I gave him a piece of cake. He saw it in the pantry window and asked for some. Then he was in again for a glass of water.” Another problem. Life is just one perplexity after another. But there must be some explanation. “He asked for a piece of cake? Who is he, the gardener?” Lizzie was flushed with heat and impatience. Her voice rose shrilly. “He didn’t exactly ask for it, but he was lookin’ in the window at it and he says, ‘They always give me a piece of cake when I want it.’ No, he ain’t the gardener. I don’t know who he is. I thought maybe a friend of yours, one o’ the artists. He was playin’ with the kids.”