Presently fresh fun gathered in Mrs. Linceford’s eyes.  “You’re making queer friends, child, do you know, at the beginning of your travels?  We shall have Cocky-locky, and Turkey-lurky, and Goosie-poosie, and all the rest of them, before we get much farther.  Don’t breathe a word, girls,” she went on, turning toward them all, and brimming over with merriment and mischief;—­“but there’s the best joke brewing.  It’s just like a farce.  Is the door shut, Elinor?  And are the Thoresbys gone upstairs?  They’re going with us, you know?  And there’s nothing to be said about it?  And it’s partly to get away from Marmaduke Wharne?  Well, he’s going, too.  And it’s greatly because they’re spoiling the place for him here.  He thinks he’ll try Outledge; and there’s nothing to be said about that, either!  And I’m the unhappy depositary of all their complaints and secrets.  And if nobody’s stopped, they’ll all be off in the stage with us to-morrow morning!  I couldn’t help telling you, for it was too good to keep.”

The secrets were secrets through the day; and Mrs. Linceford had her quiet fun, and opportunity for her demure teasing.

“How long since Outledge was discovered and settled?—­by the moderns, I mean,” said Mr. Wharne.  “What chance will one really have of quiet there?”

“Well, really, to be honest, Mr. Wharne, I’m afraid Outledge will be just at the rampant stage this summer.  It’s the second year of anything like general accommodation, and everybody has just heard of it, and it’s the knowing and stylish thing to go there.  For a week or two it may be quiet; but then there’ll be a jam.  There’ll be hops, and tableaux, and theatricals, of course; interspersed with ’picnicking at the tomb of Jehoshaphat,’ or whatever mountain solemnity stands for that.  It’ll be human nature right over again, be assured, Mr. Wharne.”

Yet, somehow, Mr. Wharne would not be frightened from his determination,—­until the evening; when plans came out, and good-bys and wonders and lamentations began.

“Yes, we have decided quite suddenly; the girls want to see Outledge, and there’s a pleasant party of friends, you know,—­one can’t always have that.  We shall probably fill a stage:  so they will take us through, instead of dropping us at the Crawford House.”  In this manner Mrs. Thoresby explained to her dear friend, Mrs. Devreaux.

“We shall be quite sorry to lose you all.  But it would only have been a day or so longer, at any rate.  Our rooms are engaged for the fifteenth, at Saratoga; we’ve very little time left for the mountains, and it wouldn’t be worth while to go off the regular track.  We shall probably go down to the Profile on Saturday.”

And then—­da capo—­“Jefferson was no place really to stay at; you got the whole in the first minute,” etc., etc.

“Good-night, Mrs. Linceford.  I’m going up to unpack my valise and make myself comfortable again.  All things come round, or go by, I find, if one only keeps one’s self quiet.  But I shall look in upon you at Outledge yet.”  These were the stairway words of Marmaduke Wharne to-night.