Victor Ammering heaved himself out of an armchair and came sauntering up, hunched and indecisive-looking, ruffled about the head like a young thrush. He stood tugging at the flaps of his pockets, and Mrs Lee-Mittison, hurrying to and fro in a last ecstasy of preparation, stumbled over his feet.

Mr Lee-Mittison, his panama hat in his hand, was counting heads, making quick calculations, and checking over the parcels of lunch in the concierge’s desk. He called to his wife, who was advising everybody to take some kind of an alpenstock in case of difficult walking. ‘Now, are we all complete? Is there anyone else? I believe they’ve put out one too many packets of lunch.’

‘Better than one too few,’ observed one of the girls, and the rest laughed politely.

‘Three – five – six – eight —— No, there is no one to come, they have made a mistake. Now, Herbert, the girls are all ready, I think.’

‘Then forward – march!’ cried Mr Lee-Mittison and the five girls, followed by Mr and Mrs Lee-Mittison, filed through the swing-door held back by James Milton, who brought up the rear. Glancing back through the glass he saw Victor, whose rather marked exclusion from the picnic-party he was at a loss to understand, pocket the remaining parcel of sandwiches. This was done clamly and not with the air of sudden resolve. Mr Milton, puzzled, alert for experience, hurried after the others.

They went forward at a swinging pace, well spread across the middle of the road. Carriages jingled past them, and a motor rushed by containing Colonel and Mrs Duperrier and Mrs Kerr, who were driving over the frontier to visit some friends. They all waved and smiled at Mr Lee-Mittison’s party. This was a moment of keen pleasure for Mrs Lee-Mittison. She carried a mackintosh over her arm in contempt of the sky, a bag of knitting in case they should sit down for long, and a basket of delicacies, dates and chocolates, with which Herbert liked her to supplement the lunch. Under her hard hat she shone with happiness; she refused to allow Mr Milton to carry the basket.

‘Oh no, please,’ she implored, ‘it’s our picnic,’ and he saw that her day would be spoilt if she were not able to be the Martha.

Mr Lee-Mittison was pleased with his wife, as with everybody, and now and then patted affectionately the folds of her mackintosh. The departure, always a fidgety piece of organization, had gone off magnificently with never a hitch, and he looked with satisfaction at the five girls with their short skirts and neat ankles walking in front of him. No one could have been less of a horrid old satyr than Mr Lee-Mittison, but he loved to surround himself with bright faces, and the faces of young women are admittedly the brightest.