"You could go by way of Quimper or by Lorient. There's petrol to be had at both places for military purposes"—leisurely continuing to rip the big squares of canvas from the frames.
The airman, still eating, watched him askance at intervals.
"I've brought what's left of the shellac; it isn't much use, I fear. But here is his hammer and canvas stretcher, and the remainder of the nails he used for stretching his canvases," said Wayland, with an effort to speak carelessly.
"Many thanks. You also are a painter, I take it."
Wayland laid one hand on the sleeve of his uniform and laughed.
"I was a writer. But there are only soldiers in the world now."
"Quite so ... This is an odd place for an American to live in."
"My father bought it years ago. He was[pg 87] a painter of peasant life." He added, lowering his voice, although Marie-Josephine understood no English: "This old peasant woman was his model many years ago. She also kept house for him. He lived here; I was born here."
"Really?"
"Yes, but my father desired that I grow up a good Yankee. I was at school in America when he—died."