"Don't talk rot, Pynsent!" Mark replied sharply. Jim Corrance frowned at the painter, who realised at once that he had said something mal-à-propos.
"I shall cut a lettuce for you fellows," said Mark.
As he left the shelter, Jim turned to Pynsent.
"You put your hoof into it," he growled.
"I did," said Pynsent.
"I say—is Mark going to take a front seat?"
"I don't know."
Mark came back carrying a bottle of Sauterne and a noble Romaine, which he handed to Pynsent, who was famous for his salads. Mary entered a minute later with a well-basted chicken and a great dish of peas. The trio fell to their luncheon with appetite. Mary added a tart, some excellent cheese, and the best of coffee.
"I've enjoyed myself immensely," said Pynsent. "You're in Arcady, Mark. You ought to write an idyll here: Aucassin and Nicolete—hey?"
They moved up into the pine grove, talking about books and art. Jim Corrance listened, smoking his big cigar. Pynsent, who smoked Caporal cigarettes which he rolled himself, spoke volubly in a sharp New England twang: