I'm more schoolgirl than woman of the world; sometimes I get so mad with
myself I wish I could be another person, and meet myself out, and be
fearfully subtle and humiliating.
All the morning I was strung up to concert pitch waiting for things to
happen, and nothing happened. I had a feeling that the end of my little
interlude with Cheneston was nearly over. I tried so hard to be
philosophic about it.
We were going for the last picnic of the season with the Gilpins and
Morrisons. We were going to motor out to the White Woman's Cave and
have lunch there. Cheneston was coming too; the new battery was not in
camp yet, and he was at a loose end. Several of the officers had been
invited, and I had looked forward to it.
"You'll wear your lemon linen coat and skirt and your big black sailor,
won't you, Pam?" mother said, wandering into my room as I was changing.
"Dear, dear! how ragged the garden looks! Winter will soon be here, and
then we shall have to see about coats and skirts and things for you.
Pam, there isn't any hitch, is there?"