Vincent was standing below her on the marble step.  He looked up at her now, and something about his expression made Mr. Welles think again of glossy fur emitting sparks.  He said, “I’ll lay you a wager, Mrs. Crittenden, that there is one thing your Ashley underground news-service has not told you about us, and that is, that I’ve come up not only to help Mr. Welles install himself in his new home, but to take a somewhat prolonged rest-cure myself.  I’ve always meant to see more of this picturesque part of Vermont.  I’ve a notion that the air of this lovely spot will do me a world of good.”

As Mr. Welles opened his mouth, perhaps rather wide, in the beginning of a remark, he cut in briskly with, “You’re worrying about Schwatzkummerer, I know.  Never you fear.  I’ll get hold of his address, all right.”  He explained briefly to Mrs. Crittenden, startled by the portentous name.  “Just a specialist in gladiolus seeds.”

“Bulbs!” cried Mr. Welles, in involuntary correction, and knew as he spoke that he had been switched off to a side-track.

“Oh well, bulbs be it,” Vincent conceded the point indulgently.  He took off his hat in a final salutation to Mrs. Crittenden, and grasping his elderly friend by the arm, moved with him down the flag-paved path.

CHAPTER IV

TABLE TALK

An Hour in the Home Life of Mrs. Neale Crittenden, aet. 34

March 20.

As she and Paul carried the table out to the windless, sunny side-porch, Marise was struck by a hospitable inspiration.  “You and Elly go on setting the table,” she told the children, and ran across the side-yard to the hedge.  She leaned over this, calling, “Mr. Welles!  Mr. Welles!” and when he came to the door, “The children and I are just celebrating this first really warm day by having lunch out of doors.  Won’t you and Mr. Marsh come and join us?”

By the time the explanations and protestations and renewals of the invitation were over and she brought them back to the porch, Paul and Elly had almost finished setting the table.  Elly nodded a country-child’s silent greeting to the newcomers.  Paul said, “Oh goody!  Mr. Welles, you sit by me.”

Marise was pleased at the friendship growing up between the gentle old man and her little boy.

“Elly, don’t you want me to sit by you?” asked Marsh with a playful accent.

Elly looked down at the plate she was setting on the table.  “If you want to,” she said neutrally.

Her mother smiled inwardly.  How amusingly Elly had acquired as only a child could acquire an accent, the exact astringent, controlled brevity of the mountain idiom.

“I think Elly means that she would like it very much, Mr. Marsh,” she said laughingly.  “You’ll soon learn to translate Vermontese into ordinary talk, if you stay on here.”

She herself went through the house into the kitchen and began placing on the wheel-tray all the components of the lunch, telling them over to herself to be sure she missed none.  “Meat, macaroni, spinach, hot plates, bread, butter, water . . . a pretty plain meal to invite city people to share.  Here, I’ll open a bottle of olives.  Paul, help me get this through the door.”