Peter was very far from feeling any inclination towards displaying the hilarity which an outdoor meal is supposed to provoke.  He was obliged to collect sticks, and put a senseless round-bottomed kettle on a damp reluctant fire; to himself he used much stronger adjectives in describing both; he relieved his feelings slightly by saying that he never ate lunch, and by gloomily eying the game-pie instead of aiding Sarah to demolish it.

“It wouldn’t be a picnic without a kettle and a fire; and we must have hot water to wash up with.  I brought a dish-cloth on purpose,” said Sarah.  “I can’t think why you don’t enjoy yourself.  You used to be fond of eating and drinking—­anywhere—­and most of all on the moor—­in the good old days that are gone.”

“I am not a philosopher like you,” said Peter, angrily.

“I am anything but that,” said Sarah, with provoking cheerfulness.  “A philosopher is a thoughtful middle-aged person who puts off enjoying life until it’s too late to begin.”

“I hate middle-aged people,” said Peter.

“I am not very fond of them myself, as a rule,” said Sarah, indulgently.  “They aren’t nice and amusing to talk to, like you and me; or rather” (with a glance at her companion’s face), “like me; and they aren’t picturesque and fond of spoiling us, as really old people are.  They are just busy trying to get all they can out of the world, that’s all.  But there are exceptions; or, of course, it wouldn’t be a rule.  Your mother is an exception.  No one, young or old, was ever more picturesque or—­or more altogether delicious.  It was I who taught her that new way of doing her hair.  By-the-by, how do you like it?”

“I don’t like it at all,” growled Peter.

“Perhaps you preferred the old way,” said Sarah, turning up her short nose rather scornfully.  “Parted, indeed, and brushed down flat over her ears, exactly like that horrid old Mrs. Ash!”

“Mrs. Ash has lived with us for thirty years,” said Peter, in a tone implying that he desired no liberties to be taken with the names of his faithful retainers.

“That doesn’t make her any better looking, however,” retorted Sarah.  “In fact, she might have had more chance of learning how to do her hair properly anywhere else, now I come to think of it.”

“Of course everything at Barracombe is ugly and old-fashioned,” said Peter, gloomily.

“Except your mother,” said Sarah.

“Sarah!  I can’t stand any more of this rot!” said Peter, starting from his couch of heather.  “Will you talk sense, or let me?”

Sarah shot a keen glance of inquiry at his moody face.

“Well,” she said, in resigned tones, “I did hope to finish my lunch in peace.  I saw there was something the matter when you came striding up the hill without a word, but I thought it was only that you found the basket too heavy.  Of course, if I had known it was only to be lunch for one, I would not have put in so many things; and certainly not a whole bottle of papa’s best claret.  In fact, if I had known I was to picnic practically alone, I would not have crossed the river at all.”