It was up-hill to Smoke House, and Mr. Langham, in his burdensome overcoat, grew warm on the way, and was puffing slightly when he got there.
"Mary," Maud called—"Mr. Langham!"
"The kitchen is the foundation of all domestic happiness," said he. "I have come to yours as fast as I could. I think—I know, that I never saw a brighter, happier-looking kitchen."
He knew also that he had never seen so beautiful a presiding deity.
"Your sister," he said, "told me that I could have a little breakfast right here." And he repeated the statement concerning his club kitchen.
"Of course, you can!" said Mary.
"Just a few eggs," he said, "and if there's anything green——"
They called the chef. He was very happy because the season had begun. He assigned Mr. Langham a seat from which to see and at which to be served, then with the wrist-and-finger elegance of a prestidigitator, he began to prepare a few eggs and something green.
"The trout—" Mary began dutifully, as it was for the sake of these that Mr. Langham had ostensibly come so early in the season.
"Trout?" he said.