When they grew weary of sight-seeing, the whole party went down again to the river, and getting into the boats, rowed up the stream for a considerable distance, and ultimately decided to hold their picnic just below Hambledon Lock, with the pleasant murmur of the Weir in their ears.
Such a scene of confusion, getting out the luncheon--everyone seated round in attitudes graceful and otherwise, with the clatter of dishes, the popping of champagne corks, and a perfect Babel of voices.
"This is jolly," said Pat, with his mouth full. "I'm fond of Arcadian simplicity."
"Especially when it's accompanied by champagne," cried Bubbles, raising his glass to his lips.
"Begad, you're not slow in finding out what I mean," said Ryan, laughing, and filling his glass.
"Imitation's the sincerest flattery," observed Miss Lester, gaily, trying to cut up a rather wiry chicken. "I believe this fowl was a pedestrian, his legs are so tough."
"Try some of the breast," said Sir Mark; "at all events, it hasn't got eight legs, like the birds you get on board ship."
"That's true enough," cried Pat; "everyone seems to get legs of fowls on board--perhaps they're like Manx men,--got three legs."
"Or a hundred, like a centipede," said Bubbles.
"Oh, this conversation is frivolous," said Pat, raising his glass, "so I'll propose a toast: to the health of Miss Trevor, and many happy returns of the day."