“You mustn’t think us too informal if things are a bit crowded, that’s part of the fun.”
“What is informal?” asked Mr. Martin, quite gravely.
George smiled. Why, the man was kidding her.
“Informal’s what women always say they’re going to be and never are.”
“George loves to lay down the law about women, Mr. Martin. As a matter of fact he knows nothing about them. I expect you know more than he does, even if you’re a bachelor.”
“Is there a lot to know?” said Mr. Martin.
The man’s delightful, thought George.
I never felt as queer as this before, thought Phyllis. I feel as though something astonishing were going to happen. Or worse still, as though nothing would ever happen. How many sandwiches will we need? Three children, two of us, Mr. Martin, Ben and Ruth, Miss Clyde—that makes nine. When this gruesome Picnic is over, perhaps I shall have a chance to ease up. I feel as though I should like to fall in love with someone. I wonder if Mr. Martin would do?
“Mr. and Mrs. Brook are coming this evening,” she said gaily. “You’ll like them, they’re charming.”
“As a matter of fact,” said George (she always knew, when he began with that phrase, that he was going to contradict her), “they’re the dullest people on earth; so completely dull that you can’t help envying them. They’re the perfect mates, too stupid even to disagree with each other. If every other couple in the world went smash, marriage would still be justified by Ben and Ruth.”