The third day, indeed, all seems forgotten; our animosity is laid, and peace is proclaimed, This time, however, there has been no explanation, no kindly reconciliation, and only Marmaduke and I know that underneath our perfect amiability lies a thin stratum of ice, that any chance cold may harden into hopeless solidity.
----
"Phyllis, we have agreed to let the birds hold high holiday to-morrow, if you will promise us a picnic. It seems a pity to let this last glimpse of summer go by unmarked," says Marmaduke, speaking to me from the foot of the dinner-table.
"Oh, how delightful!" cry I, flushing with pleasure, and dodging all the flowers on the table to got a good look at his face. As he is also carefully dodging them in his turn, with the like laudable purpose of beholding me, it is some time before we manage it. When our eyes do meet we smile sympathetically.
I hardly know why I do so, but as I withdraw my gaze from Marmaduke I turn upon Sir Mark Gore, who sits at my right hand. The curiously cold, calculating expression I meet startles and somewhat displeases me.
"Do you not like picnics!" I ask him abruptly.
"Very much indeed. Why should you think otherwise?"
"Your expression just now was not one of pleasure."
"No? It ought to have been. I was inwardly admiring the charming enthusiasm with which you received your husband's proposition."
"Oh!" return I, curtly. "Yes. As I told you once before, when I am pleased I show it; I am more than pleased now; I am enchanted," smiling brightly at the thought. "Do you know I have not been at a picnic since I was a girl—that is, unmarried."