“I don't care. I like talking, don't you?”
“Yes, indeed.”
They ordered wine of an old woman in a green apron, who had three yellow teeth that protruded from her mouth when she spoke.
“I haven't had anything to eat,” said Andrews.
“Wait a minute.” The boy ran out to the cart and came back with a canvas bag, from which he took half a loaf of bread and some cheese.
“My name's Marcel,” the boy said when they had sat for a while sipping wine.
“Mine is Jean...Jean Andre.”
“I have a brother named Jean, and my father's name is Andre. That's pleasant, isn't it?”
“But it must be a splendid job, working in a fruit orchard,” said Andrews, munching bread and cheese.
“It's well paid; but you get tired of being in one place all the time. It's not as it is in Brittany....” Marcel paused. He sat, rocking a little on the stool, holding on to the seat between his legs. A curious brilliance came into his grey eyes. “There,” he went on in a soft voice, “it is so quiet in the fields, and from every hill you look at the sea.... I like that, don't you?” he turned to Andrews, with a smile.