"Of course. You younger men of Troy seem strangely blind to your duties—and your chances."
The last three words came as if by after-thought; Sam looked up quickly.
"Chances? You said 'chances,' I believe?"
"I did. Was there not Miss Saunders, for instance?"
Sam's lip curled.
"Miss Saunders is not a chance; she is a certainty. Did she, for instance, announce that the beauty of the day made her sad—that even amid the wealth of summer something inside her whispered 'Autumn'?"
"She did."
"She always does; I have never picnicked with Miss Saunders but something inside her whispered 'Autumn'!"
"A small bore," suggested Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys, "that never misses fire."
Sam tittered and resumed—