Would it happen? Would she agree? He was impatient, but deferring. Alma sat considering, in the attitude Mr. Stoner had called a pretty snap, her elbows meeting on the table, her chin on her slender hands; just its point, resting on the bridge they made laid flatly one upon the other. It was natural in her. But by now she knew that men admired natural poses. _He_ was admiring, even through his impatience. "I didn't suggest it. I've never slept out in my life." "You suggested it, Miriam. My death, all our little deaths from exposure, will lie at your door." The swift personal glance he dealt her from the midst of his watching swept round to Miss Prout and flashed into admiration as he turned, still sideways surveying her, to bend his voice on Alma. "It's quite manageable, eh, Susan?" Miriam followed his eyes. Miss Prout had risen and was standing away from the table posed like a Gainsborough; challenging head, skirts that draped and spread of themselves, gracefully, from the slenderness of her body. She was waiting, indifferent, interpreting the scene in her way, interpreting the other women for him, united with him in interpreting them.... Alma relaxed and looked up, holding the matter poised, deliberately locating the casting vote before breaking into enthusiasm. He paid tribute, coming round the table companionably to her side, but still looking from face to face, claiming audience. "We'll break out. Each bring its little mattress and things. After they've retired. Yes, I think, _after_ they've retired." Why the conspirator's smile? The look of daring? What of the servants? They were bound, anyhow, to know in the morning. It was glorious to rush about in the lit house, shouting unnecessary remarks. People shouting back. Nobody attending. Shouting and laughing for the sake of the jolly noise. Saying more than could be said in talk. Admitting. And then just to lie extinguished in the darkness wondering what point there was in sleeping out if you went to sleep at once. All that jolly tumult. And he had been so intent on the adventure that he had let Miss Prout change her mind without protest, _only_ crying out from the midst of busily arranging his bed on the lawn.... "Have you seen Miriam's pigtails?" And suddenly everything was prim; the joy of being out in the night surging in the air, waiting for some form of expression. They didn't _know_ how to be joyful; only how to be clever.... She hummed a little song and stopped. It wreathed about her, telling off the beauties of the night, a song sung by someone else, heard, understood, a perfect agreement. "What is she doing?" "She's sitting up, waving her banana in the air; conducting an orchestra, I think."