She gave him a smile, half tender, half mischievous. And her teeth were as white as his own in her sunburnt face. There was a whole host of dimples, too, which a young man might have remarked. But what mattered the dimples of a peasant girl?
Then the fiddler took the old woman round the neck and kissed her plump, wholesome cheek with a smack.
"Supper, supper!" cried he. "And if it's good, you shall have such music that your hearts shall sing."
The girl laughed out loud, and ran to the hearth, where she seized a pot.
"In Heaven's name," cried the woman, "leave that, child! 'Tis not fit for you."
"Oh, please," urged Sidonia of the yellow plaits, "please, little foster-mother!"
Forest-mother to the fiddler, foster-mother to the girl. Steven had supposed her grandmother. Bah! As if, indeed, it were worth a thought!
"Get the wine, then," said the matron, with a jolly, unctuous chuckle.
And while, swinging long tails of hair and scarlet ankles flashing, the girl darted round the table, what must this fantastic fellow Geiger-Hans do but introduce guest and hostess with one of his absurd flourishes.
"Here, dear comrade, is Dame Friedel, mother of the great King Jerome's own Head Forester. And here, mother, is a most noble Austrian count, whom the accidents of travel have forced to condescend to the shelter of your humble roof this evening."