“Martie, this spice cake—!  Mine never looks like this.  Oh, May, you villain!  You said you weren’t going to bother with the lettuce sandwiches; they look perfectly delicious!  What’s in these?—­cream cheese and pineapple—­they look delicious!  Look out for the eggs, George!”

Salt sifted from a folded paper, white enamelled cups were set upon a level surface of the rock, a quart glass jar held lump sugar.  The smoke of the fire shifted capriciously, reddening eyes, and bearing with it the delicious odour of brewing coffee.

Bending over the cake she was cutting, Martie sensed that Cliff was beside her.  She dared not give him a betraying word, the others were too close, but she sent him an upward glance.  His answering glance was so full of pride and excitement, Martie felt her soul flood with content.  Driving home, against the straight-falling spokes of the setting sun, they could talk a little, shyly and inconsequently.  A first dew had fallen, bringing a sharp, sweet odour from the brown grass; Monroe seemed a dear and homely place as they came home.

“Were you surprised, Martie?”

“When I first thought of it?  I was absolutely stunned!  But to-day?—­ no, I wasn’t exactly surprised to-day.”

“I had no idea, even this morning!” he confessed.  She wondered if her admission smacked of the designing widow.

“Other people will be!” she said in smiling warning.

He chuckled mischievously.

“Well, won’t they?” He smiled for a moment or two in silence, over his wheel.  Martie made another tiny misstep.

“I suppose there’s no reason why I shouldn’t tell Lydia—­” she began musingly.

“Don’t tell a soul!” he said quickly.  “Not for a while, anyway.  When we get all our plans made, then we’ll tell ’em, and turn around and get married before you could say ‘Jack Robinson!’”

She felt a little chill; a younger woman, with a younger lover, would have had her pouting and her petting for this.  But what did it matter?  Clifford had his first kiss in the dim old parlour with the gas-brackets that evening; and after a few days he was as fervent a lover as any woman could ask, eager to rush through the necessary preparations for their marriage, and to let the world know of his happiness.

He was more demonstrative than Martie had anticipated, or than she really cared to have him.  She found odd girlish reserves deep in her being when he put his arms about her.  He was never alone with her for even a minute without holding her close, turning up her lovely face for his smiling kisses, locking a big warm arm about her shoulders.

After some thought, she told Lydia and Sally, on a hot afternoon when they were upstairs in the cool window end of the hallway, patiently going over boxes and boxes of old letters.  She had been absent-minded and silent that day, and Sally had once or twice looked at her in surprise.

“Girls—­listen.  I’m going to be married!” she said abruptly, her eyes childishly widened, dimples struggling at the corners of her demure mouth.  Sally leaped up in a whirlwind of letters, and gave a shout of delight.