honest. Perhaps I may feel differently when I know
what I am talking about."

"Your picnic!" cried Mrs McNab.

"My picnic!" corrected the Editor. "I never gave a picnic before, and
I'm weighed down by responsibility. My brother refuses to help me, and
Mrs McNab is a Spartan, and nips my suggestions in the bud. She thinks
we ought to be satisfied with bread and butter; I want cakes and fruit;
I want her to bake, and she says she has no time to bake; I want to send
over to Rew on the chance of getting strawberries; she says she has no
one to send. If you agree with me, Miss Vane, perhaps she will make
time; I know by experience that she is always better than her word!"

Mrs McNab sniffed ironically.

"There's scones for ye, and good fresh butter--what do ye want forbye?
Ye'd get nae mair if ye were at hame, and it's not going to kill ye,
walking a couple of miles. I've something else to do on a Thursday
morning than waste my time messing over things that aren't needed."

Mr Elgood leant against the dresser, and surveyed her more in sorrow
than in anger.

"Now what have you to do?" he demanded. "It's absurd to pretend that
there is anything to clean, because you never give a thing a chance to
become dirty. There is cold meat for lunch, as you yourself informed
me, so there's no cooking on hand. This house goes by machinery, with
Elspeth to stoke up the motive power. What can be left for you? I
can't think of a single thing."

"Maybe not. A man-body never kens what goes on under his nose, though
he'd be keen enough to find out if anything went wrong. It's the day I
clean my candlesticks and brasses. They don't go on shining by
themselves, whatever ye may think."

"Candlesticks and brasses!" George Elgood repeated the words with
gloomy emphasis, fixing the speaker with reproachful eyes.
"Candlesticks and brasses! And you put such things as those before
_me_, and the first--one of the first, favours I have ever asked! ... A
big plum cake, with almonds at the top, and a round of shortbread; it
seems to me a most moderate request. There's not a soul in the inn who
will notice a shade of extra polish on the candlesticks to-night, but
they will all bear me a lifelong grudge if I don't give them enough to
eat. Have you ever been to a picnic where you were expected to be
satisfied with bread and butter, Miss Vane?"

Margot's shake of the head was tragic in its solemnity.

"Never! and I don't intend to