“Did you find de hot fish pie?” inquired Clethera, solicitous about man thrown on his own resources as cook.
Honoré acknowledged with hearty gratitude the supper which Melinda Cree had baked and her granddaughter had carried into the bereaved house while its inmates were out.
“They not get fish pie like that in de war. Jules, he say it is better than poor Therese could make,” Honoré added, handsomely, with large unsuspicion.
Clethera shook a finger in his face.
“Honoré McCarty, you got watch dat Jules! I got to watch Melinda. Simon Leslie, he have come by and put it in Jules' head since de funer'l! I hear it, me.”
The young man's face changed through the dusk. He braced his back against the fence and breathed the deep sigh of tried patience.
“Honoré, how many mothers is it you have already?”
“I have not count',” said the young man, testily.
“Count dem mothers,” ordered Clethera.
“Maman,” he began the enumeration, reverently. His companion allowed him a minute's silence after the mention of that fine woman.