"I'm not so proper as you think."
How she hated to be called proper! He knew it, and smiled teasingly up at her. He was lying flat upon his back with his hands folded beneath his head, with one knee drawn up, and perched upon it his other foot, shod in spotless white. Reba was sitting very straight beside him, with the large book resting on her lap.
"Never mind my jokes," he placated patronizingly, and patted her with one of his lean hands. "Go on, I'm listening."
They were on the safest sort of ground then. They had frolicked like this time and time again together. It wasn't then that the flimsy curtain between them was ripped down.
At about six-thirty Dr. Booth had opened before Reba's eyes a marvelous lunch-basket, equipped with plates, and cups and saucers, and shining silver; and had laid out before her, in the roseate glow of the sunset, the astonishing picnic-lunch (packed six hours earlier at his club) consisting of a roast duck, dainty rolls, and a fruit salad; and later, from out of magical thermos bottles and jars, had produced ice-cream and hot coffee, and some old French wine he had rummaged in the wine-closet for, at home, before he started.
They partook of the feast jovially, like carefree children, and afterward Reba picked up the dishes and packed them all carefully away in the basket again, still softly exclaiming over the wonder of the Aladdin-like repast, and deploring the fact that she didn't have some good, hot water to make bright and shining again the pretty, flower-sprigged china. Chadwick Booth lolled back on the rocks and watched her through the curling smoke of his cigarette, as she moved in the
