over there..." It was probable enough that no
member of the Cole family would have minded banishing Mrs. Le Page
into the farmhouse, but it would have meant that the whole party must
accompany her. That was impossible. They had come for a picnic and a
picnic they would have.

Mrs. Cole watched, with growing agitation, the whole situation. She saw
from her husband's face that he was rapidly losing his temper, and she
had learnt, after many experiences, that when he lost his temper he was
capable of anything. That does not mean, of course, that he ever was
angry to the extent of swearing or striking out with his fists--no, he
simply grew sadder, and sadder, and sadder, and this melancholy had a
way of reducing to despair all the people with whom he happened to be at
the time.

"What does everyone say to our having lunch now?" cried Mrs. Cole
cheerfully. "It's after one, and I'm sure everyone's hungry."

No one said anything, so preparations were begun. A minute piece of
shade was found for Mrs. Le Page, and here she sat on a flat piece of
rock with her skirts drawn close about her as though she were afraid
of rats or crabs. A tablecloth was laid on the sand and the provisions
spread out--pasties for everybody, egg-sandwiches, seed-cake, and
jam-puffs--and ginger beer. It looked a fine feast when it was all
there, and Mrs. Cole, as she gave the final touch to it by placing a
drinking glass containing two red rose-buds in the middle, felt proud of
her efforts and hoped that after all the affair might pass off bravely.
But alas, how easily the proudest plans fall to the ground.

"I hope, Alice, you haven't forgotten the salt!"

Instantly Mrs. Cole knew that she had forgotten it. She could see
herself standing there in Mrs. Monk's kitchen forgetting it. How could
she? And Mrs. Monk, how could SHE? It had never been forgotten before.

"Oh, no," she said wildly. "Oh, no! I'm sure I can't have forgotten it."

She plunged about, her red face all creased with anxiety, her hat on
one side, her hands searching everywhere, under the tablecloth, in the
basket, amongst the knives and forks.

"Jim, you haven't dropped anything?"

"No, mum. Beggin' your pardon, mum, the basket was closed, so to
speak--closed it was."

No, she knew that she had forgotten it.

"I'm so sorry, Mrs. Le Page, I'm afraid--"

"My dear Mrs. Cole! What does it matter? Not in the least, I assure you.
In this heat it's impossible to feel hungry, isn't