She had chosen a site for the picnic near a bubbling brook, and had filled her glass with clear sparkling water therefrom, before seating herself to enjoy her cold chicken and bread and butter, and a slice of game-pie.
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.