“Well, don’t you think it’s going to clear up to-morrow?” demanded John anxiously. “Because if it does, and if Mrs. Hildreth doesn’t object, we were hoping you’d go on some sort of excursion with us.”
“How jolly!” cried Babbie, and suggested Iona. But the men had been there, and John objected to going anywhere in a crowd.
“What I meant was to go off somewhere just as we did that summer in the woods, not looking for scenery or for storied castles, but just for a jolly good time and a good tramp—or a drive if you girls prefer that.”
Babbie twisted her face into an expression of puzzled amusement. “Oh, John Morton, you are so funny,” she gasped. “You mean you want to forget you’re in Scotland and pretend you’re in America, so you can go on a plain American picnic.”
“I object to plain,” said John promptly. “I insist on having extra-super eats on any picnic that I honor with my presence. Stop laughing, Babbie. I don’t see anything so funny in wanting to go on a picnic.”
“Well, probably there isn’t,” admitted Babbie, “only I never went on one before in Europe, and I never heard of any one else who did. But I think it will be great fun.”
“And that’s what we’re here for,” added Madeline promptly. “We’re not the kind of tourists who bore themselves with solid days of ruins and museums and galleries that they’d never think of visiting if they were in New York. We hope to improve our minds when it’s perfectly agreeable, but we’re all against cramming.”
“Why, Madeline Ayres,” cried Betty eagerly, “you know you were the worst crammer in 19—.”
“The best, you mean, my child,” Madeline corrected her. “Well, now that I’m a full-fledged B. A., I see the error of my ways, and I am resolved not to cram on the British museum when we get to it.”
“Everybody stop disputing,” commanded Babe, “and decide about the eats.”