It was the farewell to Claire and Jeff Saxton, a picnic in the Cascades,

near Snoqualmie Falls--a decent and decidedly Milt-less fiesta. Mrs.

Gilson was going to show Claire that they were just as hardy adventurers

as that horrid Daggett person. So she didn't take the limousine, but

merely the seven-passenger Locomobile with the special body.

They were ever so rough and wild. They had no maid. The chauffeur was

absolutely the only help to the Gilsons, Claire, Jeff, and the

temporarily and ejaculatorily nature-loving Mrs. Betz in the daring task

of setting out two folding camp-tables, covering them with a linen

cloth, and opening the picnic basket. Claire had to admit that she

wished that she could steal the picnic basket for Milt. There were

vacuum bottles of hot coffee. There were sandwiches of anchovy and paté

de foie gras. There were cream cakes with almonds hidden in the suave

cream, and there was a chicken salad with huge chunks of pure white meat

wallowing in a sea of mayonnaise.

When the gorging was done and the cigarettes brought out (the chauffeur

passed a spirit lamp), they stretched on rubber blankets, and groaned a

little, and spoke well of nature and the delights of roughing it.

"What is it? What's wrong? They're so--oh, so polite. They don't mean

what they say and they don't dare to say what they mean. Is that it?"

worried Claire.

She started. She discovered that she was looking at a bristle of

rope-colored hair and a grin projected from the shelter of a manzanita

bush.

"For the----" she gasped. She was too startled to be able to decide what

was for-the. She spoke judiciously to Jeff Saxton about Upper Montclair,

the subway, and tennis. She rose to examine the mountains, strolled

away, darted down a gully, and pounced on Milt Daggett with: "How in heaven's name----"

"Found out where you-all were going. Look! Got a bug! Rented it. Come

on! Let's duck! Drive back with me!" At the end of the gully was a new

Teal bug, shinier than the ancient lost chariot, but equally gay and

uncomfortable.

"Can't. Like to, but---- Be awfully rude to them. Won't do that--not

more than is good for their souls--even for you. Now don't be sulky."

"I won't. Nev' be sulky again, because you're crazy about me, and I

don't have to be sulky."

"Oh, I am, am I! Good heavens, the inconceivable conceit of the child!"

She turned her back. He darted to her, caught her hands behind her,

kissed her hair, and whispered, "You are!"

"I am not!"

"Well then, you're not. Lord, you're sweet! Your hair smells like

cinnamon and clean kittens. You'd rather go bumping off in my flivver

than sailing in that big Loco they've got there."




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