Madge had observed his interest in the party on the hill.

"George," she said, "what are you looking at?"

"I am looking at those people who are picnicking. They probably have
ants in the salad and spiders in their coffee."

"They are getting more out of it than you and I," said Madge.

"How getting more?"

"We are tired of things, Georgie-Porgie."

"Speak for yourself, Madge."

"I am speaking for both of us. You are tired of me, for example."

"My dear girl, I am not."

"You are. And I am tired of you. It's not your fault, and it's not mine.
It is the fault of any house-party. People see too much of each other.
I am glad I am going away to-morrow, and you'll be glad. And when we
have been separated a month, you will rush up to see me, and say you
couldn't live without me."

She dissected him coolly. Madge had a modern way of looking at things.
She was not in the least sentimental. But she had big moments of
feeling. It was because of this deep current which swept her away now
and then from the shallows that she held Dalton's interest. He never
knew in what mood he should find her, and it added spice to their