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.

Mark appeared just then and she began to laugh helplessly. His hands
were wetly, pinkly, unnaturally clean, but his round, rosy, sunny little
face was appallingly streaked and black.

Paul did not laugh. He said in horrified reproach, "Oh, Mark! You never
_touched_ your face! It's piggy dirty."

Mark was staggered for a moment, but nothing staggered him long. "I
don't get microbes off my face into my food," he said calmly. "And you
bet there aren't any microbes left on my hands." He went on, looking at
the table disapprovingly, "Mother, there isn't a many on the table
_this_ day, and I wanted a many."

"The stew's awful good," said Paul, putting away a large quantity.

"'Very,' not 'awful,' and don't hold your fork like that," corrected
Marise, half-heartedly, thinking that she herself did not like the
insipid phrase "very good" nor did she consider the way a fork was held