At last she asked it.
"When do you go—mon Jean?"
The boy gave a quick glance at his sister and his eyes fixed themselves upon the table before him and stayed there. She knew then what they had been speaking of when she came into the room.
"What difference does it make, petite Maman, when I go?"
"But when, my son?"
"See, Angele, she is anxious to be rid of me! She cannot wait until I go. She insists upon knowing even before we have finished this supper of ours."
"Maman;"—the girl spoke hurriedly. "Let us talk of that later."
"When?" She insisted.
"But, Maman, you have not touched your food. Was it not good? And I thought you would so like the p'tit marmite."
"It is excellent, Angele."