“O love, they die in yon rich sky,
They faint on hill or field or river:
Our echoes roll from soul to soul,
And grow forever and forever.”
“Diana,” continued Dunstan, “let us walk a little.”
They went on for a few steps in silence, her arm in his. They had not noticed the direction they took, and these few steps brought them over the crest above the banqueting spot. Several of the party were gathered about Mrs. Wilkes and aiding her in arranging for return.
“Come, Mr. Dunstan,” cried Mrs. Wilkes, catching sight of him as he was turning back. “You are just the person I wanted to select Mrs. Wellabout’s forks and Mrs. Skibbereen’s spoons. No! no! I can’t excuse you. Young men must make themselves useful at my picnics. You’ve had the belle long enough. She must be tired of you by this time. I understand what it means when ladies bring their cavaliers back to the chaperon’s neighbourhood.”
Dunstan half uttered an ugly Spanish oath. Diana, half-hearing, gave him a reproving look. Belden and another gentleman approached and Dunstan was dragged off to identify spoons and forks. He recognised all his obligations to Mrs. Wilkes, and did his best to help that busy lady through her embarrassments with clumsy servants. He did not even break plates and dishes. Men who have had their California or frontier experience, understand themselves in crockery and cookery. Still, at this moment, he would have preferred not to be so useful.
And now Mrs. Wilkes, like a wise mother of an errant brood, began to sound her homeward notes of recall. The roll of the party began to complete itself. Someone asked, “Where is Diana?” Where, indeed?
“I saw her walking off alone towards the Dumplings some time ago,” Gyas Cutus said. “I asked if she wanted a companion and she said no—so I thought I wouldn’t go.”