But the picnic had begun. Men pinned on newspapers, rushed for cardboard to cut out armour, rifled the linen cupboards for tablecloths. Journals, sandwich men, knights, ghosts, came laughing to the garden, odd ends fluttering, pins proving unstable friends.
Women got at the heap of odds and ends—gauzes, tinsel crowns, veils and lace, tying great sashes over their evening dresses, shrieking for inspiration.
With a ripple of laughter, Lady Deverelle, wife of the tenth earl, flung off her long green skirt, and stood forth audaciously in a froth of green silk reaching not far below her knees; put a paper crown on her head, and called herself a fairy.
Echo of their laughter drifted to the river. Boats massed outside as people peered through the shrubs.
"Those dreadful people at the Bungalow," said Lady Susan Ploddy to her sister; they were on a houseboat a short way off.
Into the circle of light ran a crowd of laughing people, snatching at enjoyment. Out on the velvet turf, dancing to the music of hidden musicians.
"Idyllic but exhausting," said Undine to her partner. "There will be more fun to-night in looking on."
The dance would not last long; it was only an excuse for a romp.
Prince Fritz, his stout person hung about with dusters, calling himself a cheque, held the dancer in his arms, whirling her round. Navotsky shrugged her shoulders. "She was Night," she said, and merely put on a black veil, floating from her crown of diamond stars.
The great mirror reflected them all; they danced the cotillon, taking up handsome presents carelessly; scarfs, pins, studs, a hundred pounds' worth of toys which no one wanted.