“The rest are eaten. Some make chowder, which is a mystery; some are steamed in the oven; but the rest are covered with seaweed and baked on hot stones. Did you never see a clambake?”
“Never,” she answered, “although I have heard them mentioned. Are they rare feasts? I should like to see a clambake.”
“I shall have one,” I said, “and you will come. And we shall have clams, fresh digged and weltering; and fish fresh caught; and chicken not too fresh; and lobsters and sweet potatoes and corn and many other things. And there will be a great pan for the shells and the husks, for you will not throw them on the ground, as we common people do. And you will shuck the clams with your fingers, and eat the corn from the cob.”
“Horrible!” she said. And she looked at her hands, and laughed. They were shapely hands, soft and beautiful. I wished—but it does not matter what I wished, for I knew I might not have it.
“Fisherman,” she said, “you amuse me. But I will come to your clambake.”
“Do you find me more amusing than your teaching?” I asked. For one does not enjoy being laughed at by a governess with red hair and beautiful eyes, although to stand there, close before her, and to see her laugh, was a joy.
“Yes,” she answered, “vastly more than my teaching. My teaching is not amusing. I weary of it.”
“Yes,” I cried, “I know it. And do you find the doings at the great house a weariness?”
“I do,” she said. “And that is why I came here.”
“And will you come again?”