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it’s Normandie potatoes and they’re not bothered.”
    â€œDon’t say ‘Not bothered’,” said his mother. “Don’t talk like Bell, nice as he is. And there’s not a bird flying any more than there has been all day. It’s a day for neither human, animal, bird nor fish. Ridiculous, the whole thing.”
    â€œCompletely ridiculous,” she said rather later. “Your father was feeble not standing up to that sweep. He’ll get a chest again. And James with his exams.”
    At eight she said, “Ridiculous, reckless, unwise
and
jeopardizing his work”—for the telephone had revived and New York had just rung at the time it had arranged for a vital discussion. There had been great difficulty in getting through, said New York.
    â€œThe lines have been down,” said Harry’s mother. “We are having very bad weather here.”
    â€œThen why is he out in it?” New York asked and rang off.
    â€œCall this a holiday?” Mrs. Bateman cried, as she often did.
    At half past nine there was a scuffly sound over the yard and the scrape of a catch of a gate. Then subdued and squelching feet slowly plodded over stone flags. Hungry Harry and his mother beheld the group standing with pools spreading about their feet, long faces drooping below drooping hats, rods held dipped like flags at a funeral. From Mr. Bateman’s left hand hung four trout, so small and of such depressed appearance that they could have hardly tugged. Fish, one felt, that had been hanging about waiting for death.
    â€œ
It is nearly ten
o’
clock at night!
” screamed Harry’s mother.
    She seized the fish, flew to the kitchen, whacked off their heads, whipped out their insides, swished them with butter and flung them under the grill.
    â€œFour between six. Four between seven if Kendal’s staying. Where is Kendal?”
    â€œHere I am,” he stepped cheerfully in, “rather late. Never mind. Four fine trout. They weren’t rising today in any numbers.”
    â€œI’ve been frantic—frantic, Kendal. All alone with the baby Harry—up here in the mist.”
    â€œEven so—even so—a grand day.”
    â€œFrantic. Lonely. And the phone rang! There you are now. The phone rang. They’re furious with you. What a holiday. You’ll have lost it. Lost the job.”
    â€œA fair day tomorrow I’d think,” said Kendal, shutting the door on the outside world, “fairing up every minute. We must keep—”
    She disappeared into the kitchen to turn the trout. The rest of the party staggered upstairs towards hot water. Kendal stood by himself in the porch, dripping and smiling at Harry.
    â€œâ€”keep our heads,” he finished. “Unlike the poor trout. Not wise to remove their heads,” he said to Harry. “The finest taste is in the cheeks.”
    â€œTeaching me to cook fish now,” Mrs. Bateman fumed to herself in the kitchen. “I’m being treated like a fool.” The four fish looked smaller every minute. “Will you stay for supper, Kendal?” she called bleakly.
    â€œThat’d be grand,” he said. “Just the thing.”
    â€œThough I dare say Mrs. Kendal may be worrying?” She put her hot face round the kitchen door. “I expect you feel you ought to go home to Mrs. Kendal?”
    â€œOh not at all. Not at all. She knows my ways.”
    Salad, bread, butter, cheese appeared on the table with Harry’s sleepy help—mayonnaise, wine, water and the four fish, now looking like minnows. The big dish of Normandie potatoes put in the middle. They had got very crusty.
    â€œServe them right and serve them right,” muttered Mrs. Bateman crossly. Feeling like the Egg-witch she crossed her hands on her apron and said, “That’s all there is.”
    â€œMrs. Kendal sent up something,” said Kendal as the rest of the family shambled in with