"It's the only way at this season."
"Could n't it remain so the year round?" I asked.
"Why?" said Mr. Ewart.
"Because the poles will just spoil everything; as it is, it is—"
"Is what, Marcia? Out with it," said Jamie encouragingly.
"Perfect as it is," I said boldly, willing they should know what I thought of this wilderness of neglect that surrounded us in the heart of French Canada.
"Guess we can keep it perfect, as you say, Marcia, 'thout havin' to rub the burrs off'n our coats every time we go round the house," said Cale. "We 're going to do some pretty tall cuttin' inter some of this underbrush and dead timber next week if the snow ain't too deep."
"Oh, Cale, it will spoil it!"
"Wal, thet 's as you look at it; but 't ain't good policy to keep a fire-trap quite so near to a livin'-place; makes insurance rates higher."
"How would you feel then about having a modern hot water heater put into the old manor, Miss Farrell?" Mr. Ewart put the question to me.