"Indeed you may," Hilary answered. She had never thought of her camera holding such possibilities within it, of its growing into something better and more satisfying than a mere playmate of the moment.
"Rested?" Pauline asked, coming up. "Supper's nearly ready."
"I wasn't very tired. Paul, come and look at these."
Supper was served on the lawn; the pleasantest, most informal, of affairs, the presence of the older members of the party serving to turn the gay give and take of the young folks into deeper and wider channels, and Shirley's frequent though involuntary—"Do you remember, Senior?" calling out more than one vivid bit of travel, of description of places, known to most of them only through books.
Later, down on the lower end of the lawn, with the moon making a path of silver along the water, and the soft hush of the summer night over everything, Shirley brought out her guitar, singing for them strange folk-songs, picked up in her rambles with her father. Afterwards, the whole party sang songs that they all knew, ending up at last with the club song.
"'It's a habit to be happy,'" the fresh young voices chorused, sending the tune far out across the lake; and presently, from a boat on its further side, it was whistled back to them.
"Who is it, I wonder?" Edna said,
"Give it up," Tom answered. "Someone who's heard it—there've been plenty of opportunities for folks to hear it."
"Well it isn't a bad gospel to scatter broadcast," Bob remarked.
"And maybe it's someone who doesn't live about here, and he will go away taking our tune with him, for other people to catch up," Hilary suggested.