ulder.

"He's a bird," said Billy evenly, and was polite enough not to mention
what kind of bird. He was wondering what on earth had brought those
two together and why, after that night, Miss Bridger should be
friendly with the Pilgrim; but of these things he said nothing, though
he did find a good deal to say upon pleasanter subjects.

So far as any one knew, Charming Billy Boyle, while he had done many
things, had never before walked boldly into a picnic crowd carrying a
blue parasol as if it were a rifle and keeping step as best he might
over the humps and hollows of the grove with a young woman. Many there
were who turned and looked again--and these were the men who knew him
best. As for Billy, his whole attitude was one of determination; he
was not particularly lover-like--had he wanted to be, he would not
have known how. He was resolved to make the most of his opportunities,
because they were likely to be few and because he had an instinct that
he should know the girl better--he had even dreamed foolishly, once or
twice, of some day marrying her. But to clinch all, he had no notion
of letting the Pilgrim offend her by his presence.

So he somehow got her wedged between two fat women at one of the
tables, and stood behind and passed things impartially and ate ham
sandwiches and other indigestibles during the intervals. He had the
satisfaction of seeing the Pilgrim come within ten feet of them, hover
there scowling for a minute or two and then retreat. "He ain't forgot
the licking I gave him," thought Billy vaingloriously, and hid a smile
in the delectable softness of a wedge of cake with some kind of creamy
filling.

"_I_ made that cake," announced Miss Bridger over her shoulder when
she saw what he was eating. "Do you like it as well as--chicken stew?"

Whereupon Billy murmured incoherently and wished the two fat women ten
miles away. He had not dared--he would never have dared--refer to that
night, or mention chicken stew or prune pies or even dried apricots in
her presence; but with her own hand she had brushed aside the veil of
constraint that had hung between them.

"I wish I'd thought to bring a prune pie," he told her daringly, in
his eagerness half strangling over a crumb of cake.

"Nobody wants prune pie at a picnic," declared one of the fat women
sententiously. "You might as well bring fried bacon and done with it."

"Picnics," added the other and fatter woman, "iss for getting
somet'ings t' eat