"What the--oh, it's all right! He's the real thing, isn't he, now?"
The young man patted the girl's shoulder reassuringly and chuckled
as the rest of the crew emerged from the pines and peered over the
boulder.
"They're only children," he said.
She dropped her eyes and tightened her fingers around the shining
drinking cup.
"Why, yes, they're only children," she repeated carelessly.
Now, each of these picnic people had said the same words, but it was
entirely obvious to their fascinated audience that the words meant
very different things. For this reason they sidled around the young
lady impersonally, avoiding with care the edges of her pale-tinted
billowy skirts, and lined up confidently beside the young gentleman.
Not that he controlled the picnic. It was spread out in front of
her, bewitching, intimate, in its suggestion of you--and--I; two
shiny plates, two knives, two forks, two fringed and glossy napkins.
A dark red bottle was propped upright between two stones, a pile of
thin, triangular sandwiches balanced daintily on some cool lettuce
leaves, and a fascinating object that glistened mysteriously in the
sun, held the platter of honor in the middle.
"The Honorable Mr. Puck," suggested the young man, in the tone of
one continuing an interrupted conversation, "is figuring out how the
chicken got into the jelly without busting it--am I not right?"
Brother grinned, and Caroline moved a little nearer.
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