He amused himself by putting the slivers of chicken in two piles: the dark meat for Martin, the white for Joyce. How white she had been in the surf.... But that was only a dream. This is real, this is earnest. This is Now, I’m cutting sandwiches for the Picnic. This is what Time is doing to me; what is it doing to her? How did our two Times get all knotted up together? He found himself affectionately stroking a smooth slice of chicken breast. There was something in Phyllis’s silence that pricked him. He looked uneasily over his shoulder. She had sat down in the chair by the table, her chin leaning on one wrist, watching him. He went to her and touched her shoulder gently. “Go to bed, Phyl dear.” “George, can’t we get away from this house?” “What on earth do you mean?” “Get away. Take me away, George; we’ll take the children and go. To-night. Before anybody wakes up.” She rose suddenly. “I’m frightened. Take me away. George, I can’t live through to-morrow, not if it’s like to-day.” Just the way I feel, he thought. “There, there, little frog, you’re all frazzled out. It’ll be all right, don’t worry. Go and get your sleep.” “No, I’m not tired. I wish I were. I’m all burning up with _not_ being tired. George, we could take the babies and just get in the car and go. Go anywhere, anywhere where there isn’t anybody.--We’ll take Miss Clyde with us if you like. She’s frightened too.” “Don’t be absurd.” “George, it would be such fun; when they all came down to breakfast, Ben and Ruth and Mr. Martin, we just wouldn’t be here. Never come back, never see this place again.” “You’re raving, Phyl. Why, I took this house specially for you. Besides, you know I can’t go away now, I’ve got this booklet to finish.” She looked so miserable, so desperate, his anger began to throb. “You can write a booklet about something else. You know you can, they’re all crazy to get your stuff. George, you’re so big and clever, you can do anything. Miss Clyde can illustrate it. I don’t mind your loving her, I’ll be sensible, just take us away before the Picnic. Go and wake her now, she can go in her wrapper, you’ll like that.” “Damnation,” he burst out, “don’t talk such tripe. I believe you’re crazy. It’s this half-wit Martin who’s got on your nerves. I’ve got a mind to wake _him_ up, throw him out of the house. What the devil did you ask him in for?” “It’s my fault. But he’s changed so, since this morning. We’ve all changed. We’re not the same people we were.” She pushed her arms up inside the sleeves of his coat and caught his elbows. He remembered that cherished way of hers, unconscious appeal to old tendernesses. He looked down on the top of her head, into the warm hollow where his head had lain. Her neck’s prettier than Joyce’s, he thought bitterly. “It’s queer _you_ should hate him so,” she said. “What do you mean?” He pulled his arms away. “Oh, I don’t know what I mean. Perhaps he--perhaps he _is_ what you said.” “What, a half-wit?”