proportions that one hardly knew whether it was intended to be one room
or several, and it had the merit of being moderately cool at two o'clock
on a particularly hot July afternoon. In the coolest of its many alcoves
servants had noiselessly set out an improvised luncheon table: a tempting
array of caviare, crab and mushroom salads, cold asparagus, slender hock
bottles and high-stemmed wine goblets peeped out from amid a setting of
Charlotte Klemm roses.

Cicely rose from her seat and went over to the piano.

"Come," she said, touching the young man lightly with a finger-tip on the
top of his very sleek, copper-hued head, "we're going to have
picnic-lunch to-day up here; it's so much cooler than any of the
downstairs rooms, and we shan't be bothered with the servants trotting in
and out all the time. Rather a good idea of mine, wasn't it?"

Ronnie, after looking anxiously to see that the word "picnic" did not
portend tongue sandwiches and biscuits, gave the idea his blessing.

"What is young Storre's profession?" some one had once asked concerning
him.

"He has a great many friends who have independent incomes," had been the
answer.

The meal was begun in an appreciative silence; a picnic in which three
kinds of red pepper were available for the caviare demanded a certain
amount of respectful attention.

"My heart ought to be like a singing-bird to-day, I suppose," said Cicely