It had seemed such a natural thing to propose, when Sally announced that she was to go down to San Francisco for the day.  Martie had asked for the two older children, and had in all innocence suggested to Clifford that they make it a picnic.  She carried all day a burning resentment of Rose’s interference, and something like anger at him for consulting Rose.

But she showed nothing.  She duly kissed Rose, and thanked her for the lovely dinner, and Rodney took her home.  Undressing, with moonlight pouring in two cool triangles on the shabby carpet, Martie yawned.  The whole experience had been curiously flat, except for Rose’s little parting impertinence.  But there was no question about it, it had had its heartening significance!  It was the future Mrs. Clifford Frost who had been entertained to-night.

Plans for the picnic proceeded rapidly, and Martie knew, as they progressed, that she need only give Cliff his opportunity that day to enter into her kingdom.  His eagerness to please her, his unnecessary calls at the Library to discuss the various details, and the little hints and jests that fluttered about her on all sides, were a sure clue.

The morning came when the Frost’s big car squeaked down the raw driveway from Clipper Lane, with little Ruth, in starched pink gingham, beaming on the back seat.  Martie, in white, with a daisy-crowned hat mashed down over her bright hair, came out from the shadow of the side porch, the children and boxes were duly distributed:  they were off.

Martie glanced back to see Lydia’s slender form, in a severe gray percale, under one of the lilacs in the side yard.  Mary and Jim Hawkes were with her:  they all waved hands.  Lydia had shaded her face with her fingers, and was blinking in the warm June sunlight.  Poor Lydia, Martie thought, she should have been beside Cliff on this front seat, she should have been the happy mother of a sturdy Cliff and Lydia, where Ruth and Teddy and the Hawkes children were rioting in the tonneau.

They went to the Parkers’, where the other cars had gathered:  there was much laughing and running about in the bright sunlight.  The day would be hot—­ideal picnic weather.  Rodney, directing everybody, managed to get close to Martie, who was stacking coats in the car.

“Like old times, Martie!  Remember our picnics and parties?”

Martie glanced at him quickly, and smiled a little doubtfully.  She found nothing to say.

“I often look back,” Rodney went on.  “And I think sometimes that there couldn’t have been a sweeter friendship than yours and mine!  What good times we had!  And you and I always understood each other; always, in a way, brought out the best of each other.”  He looked about; no one else was in hearing.  “Now, I’ve got the sweetest little wife in the world,” he said.  “I worked hard, and I’ve prospered.  But there’s nothing in my life, Martie, that I value more than I do the memory of those old days; you believe that, don’t you?”