"Mr. Welles," said Paul, with his mouth full, "fishing season begins in ten days."
Marise decided that she would really have to have a rest from telling Paul not to talk with food in his mouth, and said nothing.
Mr. Welles confessed that he had never gone fishing in his life, and asked if Paul would take him.
"Sure!" said Paul. "Mother and I go, lots."
Mr. Marsh looked at Marise inquiringly. "Yes," she said, "I'm a confirmed fisherman. Some of the earliest and happiest recollections I have, are of fishing these brooks when I was a little girl."
"Here?" asked Mr. Welles. "I thought you lived in France."
"There's time in a child's life to live in various places," she explained. "I spent part of my childhood and youth here with my dear old cousin. The place is full of associations for me. Will you have your spinach now, or later? It'll keep hot all right if you'd rather wait."
"What is this delicious dish?" asked Mr. Marsh. "It tastes like a man's version of creamed chicken, which is always a little too lady-like for me."
"It's a blanquette de veau, and you may be sure I learned to make it in one of the French incarnations, not a Vermont one."
Paul stirred and asked, "Mother, where is Mark? He'll be late for school, if he doesn't hurry."