“I see,” was the short reply. “You want me to say I am not quite sure. Well, what do you want to do—that’s the point?”
They looked at each other.
“I think we had almost better have our picnic here,” said the one who had first spoken.
“I believe we had,” said the other sister. “This is a lovely spot.”
“If we stop here now we sha’n’t get on to Novèl at all,” said Fordham.
“Oh, hang Novèl!” cut in Scott. “I’m for stopping here. What do you say, Miss Wyatt?”
“I am perfectly ready to do what every one else wishes,” answered Alma.
“Fordham, old man, I believe we none of us want to go any further,” said Philip. “It’s awfully hot, you know, and it’ll be no end of a grind. It’s a mistake, too, to make a toil of a pleasure. I propose that we bivouac here, feed, and poke a smipe, and drop down quietly on St. Jingo—or whatever you call it—afterwards. Let’s put it to the vote.”
“All right,” said Fordham, serenely. “It’s all one to me.”
Philip was right, the fact being that every one had had enough of it. So they ate their luncheon in the cool shade, and took their ease and were happy; and after a couple of hours or so started downward for the village, where they were to embark for the return voyage across the lake.