“I don’t know,” muttered Bell.  “I wouldn’t, I am sure.  She is mortally dull.”

“One might imagine reasons for the self-sacrifice, I suppose,” said De Forest, making a languid snatch at a butterfly fluttering near.  “The possibility, we will say, that it might please the gentle old babbler to come under the condescension of your notice.  How would that do for a motive?”

“Why should I want to please her?” insisted Gerald, removing a hideous beetle from her dress with all possible care lest she should hurt it.  “I don’t want to.  I don’t care for her, nor she for me.  Why should I put myself out for her?  What claim has she on me that I should displease myself to please her?”

“Let us see,” said Denham, ruminatingly.  “Miss Delano’s pleasure against Miss Vernor’s displeasure, or vice versa, Miss Vernor’s pleasure against Miss Delano’s displeasure.  Yes; the balance of pleasure remains quite the same whichever lady has it.  Apart from principle, the logic is unanswerable.”

“It is admirable,” commented De Forest.  “I always did like logic so much better than moral philosophy.  Hello, what’s the matter now?”

There was a wail of distress somewhere in the distance.

Gerald turned her shapely head and listened a moment.  “It’s only Olly,” she said, composedly.  “I recognize the cry.  He isn’t hurt.  Oh, you needn’t go, Mr. Halloway; Olly never comes to any harm.  He’s only quarrelling with some one.”

De Forest raised himself on his elbow to listen, while Halloway walked off in the direction of the outburst.  “There are possibilities lurking in picnics, you know,” he remarked, resuming his recumbent position, “mad bulls, and rabbit traps, and fine chances for a drown now and then.  But I suppose we needn’t trouble ourselves, Mr. Halloway’ll see to it.  Besides, Olly bears the charmed life of the wicked.  Miss Masters, I hope you remember to give daily thanks that you haven’t any small brothers.”

“I do devoutly give thanks that I haven’t any sisters,” said Bell, with an unaffectionate glance toward Gerald.  “I should hate them.”

And so the desultory talk rambled on, the little group growing larger by degrees as the approaching luncheon hour brought back the stragglers, and with them Olly, trotting contentedly along, clinging to Halloway’s hand, meek as any lamb.

“What were you doing when you cried out so a little while ago?” asked Gerald, going up to the child.

Olly looked at her with instant defiance in his eyes.  “I hurt my foot.”

“You know perfectly well you can’t deceive me, Olly.  Tell me the truth.  What mischief were you at?”

“I tell you I hurt my foot, and it hurt like mischief, and that’s all the mischief there was.  I wish it had been your foot, and I wouldn’t have cried a bit.”

Halloway was turning aside, but Gerald appealed to him.  “Is he telling the truth?”