hers wore what I suppose may be called theatre
gowns; and a few who were pretty enough to stand it wore clothes suited
to the hazards of a picnic in the woods.

Mr. Blagdon's servants wore his racing colors, blue and silver,
knee-breeches, black silk stockings, pumps with silver buckles, and
powdered hair. They were men picked for their height, wooden faces, and
well-turned calves. They moved and behaved as if utterly untouched and
uninterested in their unusual and romantic surroundings; they were like
jinns summoned for the occasion by the rubbing of a magic lamp.

At the last moment, when to have been any later would have been either
rude or accidental, little Miss Blythe's voice was heard calling from
the darkness and asking which of two roads she should take. Half a dozen
men rushed off to guide her, and presently she came blinking into the
circle of light, followed by Mister Masters, who smiled his crookedest
smile and stumbled on a root so that he was cruelly embarrassed.

Little Miss Blythe blinked at the lights and looked very beautiful. She
was all in white and wore no hat. She had a red rose at her throat. She
was grave for her--and silent.

The truth was that she had during the last ten minutes made up her mind
to ask Mr. Bob Blagdon to drive her home when the picnic should be over.
She had asked Mister Masters to drive out with her; and how much that
had delighted him nobody knew (alas!) except Mister Masters himself. She
had during the last few weeks given him every opportunity which her
somewhat unconventional soul could sanction. In a hundred ways she had
showed him that she liked him immensely; and well--if he liked her in
the same way, he would have managed to show it, in spite of his shyness.
The drive out had been a failure. They had gotten no further in
conversation than the beauty and the sweet smells of the night. And
finally, but God alone knows with what reluctance, she had given him up
as a bad job.

The long table with its dozens of candles looked like a huge altar, and
she was Iphigenia come to the sacrifice. She had never heard of
Iphigenia, but that doesn't matter. At Mister Masters, now seated near
the other end of the table, she lifted shy eyes; but he was looking at
his plate and crumbling a piece of bread. It was like saying good-by.
She was silent for a moment; then, smiling with a kind of reckless
gayety, she lifted her glass of champagne and turned to the host.

"To you!" she sa