CLAM CHOWDER AND SALT AIR
Connie was right, gloriously right. It was clam chowder—the kind of clam chowder one dreams about—come true. Uncle Tom had made it just that very afternoon and had brought it over in a huge bucket that was always used for such occasions.
The girls ate and ate and ate and then ate some more until they were completely satisfied with life and were feeling contented and beautifully, wonderfully drowsy.
Connie’s mother had served them other things beside clam chowder. There were pork chops and apple sauce, there were muffins and honey and apple pie, and when they had finished, the once full table looked as if a swarm of locusts had been at it.
And all the time Connie’s mother had watched them with wide, delighted eyes and Connie’s father had lounged back in his chair, smoking a cigar and looking on with an indulgent smile.
Mr. Danvers, with the aid of a couple of men from the dock, had got the girls’ trunks up to the house and into the rooms they were going to occupy for the summer.
And now, having done his duty, he had sauntered into the dining room to get acquainted with the girls and smoke a cigar. He and Mrs. Danvers had had their dinner earlier, because, as Mrs. Danvers laughingly explained, “she had been famished and could not wait,” so that now there was nothing to do but watch the girls enjoy themselves.
The dining room was like all the other rooms in the cottage, cheerful and cozy and tastefully furnished, and as the girls looked about them happily they felt that they must have known the house and its owners all their lives.
Mr. Danvers was many years older than his wife, and he looked even older than he was. But he was a handsome man, and the touch of gray in the hair at his temples only made him look more distinguished. He adored his wife, and his eyes followed her wherever she went.
“As if any one could blame him for that,” thought Billie, as Mrs. Danvers slipped a second piece of apple pie on her plate.