The morning after the gathering of the party was Saturday and an ideal day—that sort of ideal day when house parties naturally sift into pairs and then fade away altogether. The country surrounding our particular party was densely wooded and not at all settled, the woods were laid out in a fascinating system of walks and benches which in no case commanded views of one another, and the shade overhead was the shade of July and as propitious to rest as it was to motion. Mitchell took a girl in gray and two sets of golf clubs and started out in the opposite direction from the links, Clover took a girl in green and a camera and went another way, Burnett took a girl in a riding habit and two saddle horses and followed the horses’ noses whither they led, and Jack—Jack smoked cigarettes on the piazza and waited—waited.
Mrs. Rosscott came out after a while and asked him why he didn’t go to walk also.
“Just what I was thinking as to yourself,” he said, very boldly as to voice, and very beseechingly as to eyes.
“Oh, I’m so busy,” she said, laughing up into his eyes and then laughing down at the ground—“you see I’m the only married daughter to help mamma.”
“But you’ve been helping all the morning,” he complained, “and besides how can you help? One would think that your mother was beating eggs or turning mattresses.”
“I have to work harder than that,” said Mrs. Rosscott; “I have to make people know one another and like one another and not all want to make love to the same girl.”
“You can’t help their all wanting to make love to the same girl,” said Jack; “the more you try to convince them of their folly the deeper in love they are bound to fall. I’m an illustration of that myself.”
Mrs. Rosscott looked at him then and curved her mouth sweetly.
“You do say such pretty things,” she said. “I don’t see how you’ve learned so much in so little time. Why, General Jiggs in there is three times your age and he tangles himself awfully when he tries to be sweet.”
“Perhaps his physician has recommended gymnastics,” said Jack.