open spaces that evaporates all passion, all discontent. He picks up his napkin from the rug, helps himself to vegetables, and begins to eat. How delicious life is, even for an abject fool like me, he thinks. I wonder if any one ever feels old? “The Picnic is our great annual adventure,” Phyllis was saying. “I hope you won’t think us too silly, but we _do_ look forward to it enormously. It’s such fun to forget about things once in a while and just have a good time.” “Yes,” said George, “we worry about it for weeks beforehand. And we always invite more people than the house can properly hold.” Phyllis flashed a little angry brightness across the table. “You mustn’t think us too informal if things are a bit crowded, that’s part of the fun.” “What is informal?” asked Mr. Martin, quite gravely. George smiled. Why, the man was kidding her. “Informal’s what women always say they’re going to be and never are.” “George loves to lay down the law about women, Mr. Martin. As a matter of fact he knows nothing about them. I expect you know more than he does, even if you’re a bachelor.” “Is there a lot to know?” said Mr. Martin. The man’s delightful, thought George. I never felt as queer as this before, thought Phyllis. I feel as though something astonishing were going to happen. Or worse still, as though nothing would _ever_ happen. How many sandwiches will we need? Three children, two of us, Mr. Martin, Ben and Ruth, Miss Clyde--that makes nine. When this gruesome Picnic is over, perhaps I shall have a chance to ease up. I feel as though I should like to fall in love with someone. I wonder if Mr. Martin would do? “Mr. and Mrs. Brook are coming this evening,” she said gaily. “You’ll like them, they’re charming.” “As a matter of fact,” said George (she always knew, when he began with that phrase, that he was going to contradict her), “they’re the dullest people on earth; so completely dull that you can’t help envying them. They’re the perfect mates, too stupid even to disagree with each other. If every other couple in the world went smash, marriage would still be justified by Ben and Ruth.” “How do couples go smash?” asked Janet. “You finish your beans and don’t talk,” said Phyllis. She was pleasantly fluttered by the way Mr. Martin looked at her. His eyes kept returning from his plate: lingering on her face with a gently inquiring studiousness that was not at all offensive. I believe he really does want to do a portrait of me, she thought. He’s fixing the features in his mind. She turned her head toward Sylvia and Rose so that he would see the half-profile with an appealing madonna softness upon it. The coloured glass panes behind her, what a vivid background that would make.--But she felt he was about to ask a question, and allowed her eyes to come round to meet him, to make it easier for him. Obviously he was shy. “Do I have to finish my beans?” he said. What a difficult question to answer. There must be some joke that she did not see.