As he pulled at the other end of the wheeled tray, Paul said that Mark had gone upstairs to wash his hands, ages ago, and was probably still fooling around in the soap-suds, and like as not leaving the soap in the water.

“Paul the responsible!” thought his mother.  As they passed the foot of the stairs she called up, “Mark!  Come along, dear.  Lunch is served.  All ready,” she announced as they pushed the tray out on the porch.

The two men turned around from where they had been gazing up at the mountain.  “What is that great cliff of bare rock called?” asked Mr. Marsh.

“Those are the Eagle Rocks,” explained Marise, sitting down and motioning them to their places.  “Elly dear, don’t spread it on your bread so thick.  If Mr. Bayweather were here he could probably tell you why they are called that.  I have known but I’ve forgotten.  There’s some sort of tradition, I believe . . . no, I see you are getting ready to hear it called the Maiden’s Leap where the Indian girl leaped off to escape an unwelcome lover.  But it’s not that this time:  something or other about Tories and an American spy . . . ask Mr. Bayweather.”

“Heaven forfend!” exclaimed Mr. Marsh.

Marise was amused.  “Oh, you’ve been lectured to on local history, I see,” she surmised.

“I found it very interesting,” said Mr. Welles, loyally.  “Though perhaps he does try to give you a little too much at one sitting.”

“Mr. Welles,” said Paul, with his mouth full, “fishing season begins in ten days.”

Marise decided that she would really have to have a rest from telling Paul not to talk with food in his mouth, and said nothing.

Mr. Welles confessed that he had never gone fishing in his life, and asked if Paul would take him.

“Sure!” said Paul.  “Mother and I go, lots.”

Mr. Marsh looked at Marise inquiringly.  “Yes,” she said, “I’m a confirmed fisherman.  Some of the earliest and happiest recollections I have, are of fishing these brooks when I was a little girl.”

“Here?” asked Mr. Welles.  “I thought you lived in France.”

“There’s time in a child’s life to live in various places,” she explained.  “I spent part of my childhood and youth here with my dear old cousin.  The place is full of associations for me.  Will you have your spinach now, or later?  It’ll keep hot all right if you’d rather wait.”

“What is this delicious dish?” asked Mr. Marsh.  “It tastes like a man’s version of creamed chicken, which is always a little too lady-like for me.”

“It’s a blanquette de veau, and you may be sure I learned to make it in one of the French incarnations, not a Vermont one.”

Paul stirred and asked, “Mother, where is Mark?  He’ll be late for school, if he doesn’t hurry.”

“That’s so,” she said, and reflected how often one used that phrase in response to one of Paul’s solid and unanswerable statements.