afford to wait long. Now, now, were a few precious moments. This was a dream: and dreams must be recorded at once or they vanish for ever.
She heard one of them sneeze. It was Janet: she knew all their sneezes and coughs by ear. Yes, they probably have caught cold, bathing in that storm. And they have to sleep outdoors to-night, too: on the porch, because of this infernal Picnic. It's much colder; the thermometer must have dropped twenty degrees. She hurried to get the sweaters from the cupboard under the stairs.
They were sitting at the veranda table, with milk and bread and jam. Mr. Martin was in the fourth chair. He looked as though he too was ready for supper.
"Well, chickabiddies, did you have a good bathe? I hope you didn't catch cold. Here, put on your sweaters."
They looked up at her gaily. Their upper lips were wet and whitish.
"How pretty you look!" exclaimed Janet.
She had meant to toss him a brief, clear, friendly little gaze; an orderly hostess-to-pleasant-guest regard; but this from Janet startled her. She could see that he was holding her in his eye, meditating the accuracy of Janet's comment. She did not feel ready to face him.
