“That’s what I said,” said Burnett.  “Begin with my dinner, white mice and all, and when all is going just let it slide until it seems about time to slide off.”

“Yes,” said Mitchell dryly, “it’s always a good plan to slide on until you slide off.  It would be so easy to reverse the game.”

“And then, too,—­” began Burnett.

“Excuse me,” said a voice at the door,—­a woman’s voice this time.

It was Janice, very pretty in her black dress and white decorations, hands in pockets, smile on lips.

“What’s up now?” the last speaker interrupted himself to ask, “Aunt Mary?”

“No, she’s not up,” said the maid; “but she’s awake and wants to know about the picnic.”

“There, what did I say!” cried Burnett; “isn’t she a hero?  I tell you Aunt Mary’d fight in the last ditch—­she’d never surrender!  She’s one of those dead-at-the-gun chaps.  I’m proud to think we have known the companionship of joint yachting results.”

“She says she feels as well as ever,” said Janice, opening her eyes a trifle as she noted Burnett’s pink silk negligee, “and wishes to know when you want to start.”

“Bravo,” said Mitchell; “I, too, am fired by this exposition of pluck.  I like spirit.  She reminds me of the horse who was turned out to grass and then suddenly broke the world’s record.”

“What horse was that?” asked Burnett.

“Pegasus,” said Mitchell cruelly; “I didn’t say what kind of a record he broke, did I?”

“What shall I tell Miss Watkins?” asked the maid.

Jack, who had risen at her entrance and gone to the window, faced around here and said: 

“Tell her that if she’ll dress we’ll go out bonnet-shooting and afterwards drive in the park.”

Janice hesitated.

“She will surely ask where you are to dine,” said she, half-smiling.

Jack looked at the crowd.

“Fellows,” he said, “we must save up for to-morrow’s blow-out; suppose you let Mitchell and me dine Aunt Mary somewhere very tranquilly to-night and we’ll get her home by eleven.”

“Yes, do,” said Janice, with sudden earnest entreaty.  “Honestly, there is a limit.”

“Of course, there is a limit,” said Mitchell.  “Even cities have their limits.  This one tried to be an exception, but San Francisco yelled ’Keep off’ and she drew in her claws again.  Aunt Mary, possessing many points in common with New York, also possesses that.  She has limits.  Her limits took in more than we bargained for,—­for they have taken us into the bargain.  Still they are there, and we bow to necessity.  A cheerful drive, a quiet tea, early to bed.  And pax vobiscum.”

“No wonder,” said Burnett, “it’s easy for you to agree when you’re to be one of the dinner party.”  “I don’t mind being left out,” said Clover contentedly.  “I shall sit on the sofa and whisper to ‘the one behind.’  Whispering is an art that I have almost forgotten, but inspired by that pink—­”