NICOLA.
(opening his eyes cunningly). So that’s your little secret, is it? I thought it might be something like that. Well, you take my advice, and be respectful; and make the mistress feel that no matter what you know or don’t know, they can depend on you to hold your tongue and serve the family faithfully. That’s what they like; and that’s how you’ll make most out of them.
LOUKA.
(with searching scorn). You have the soul of a servant, Nicola.
NICOLA.
(complacently). Yes: that’s the secret of success in service.
(A loud knocking with a whip handle on a wooden door, outside on the left, is heard.)
MALE VOICE OUTSIDE.
Hollo! Hollo there! Nicola!
LOUKA.
Master! back from the war!
NICOLA.
(quickly). My word for it, Louka, the war’s over. Off with you and get some fresh coffee. (He runs out into the stable yard.)
LOUKA.
(as she puts the coffee pot and the cups upon the tray, and carries it into the house). You’ll never put the soul of a servant into me.
(Major Petkoff comes from the stable yard, followed by Nicola. He is a cheerful, excitable, insignificant, unpolished man of about 50, naturally unambitious except as to his income and his importance in local society, but just now greatly pleased with the military rank which the war has thrust on him as a man of consequence in his town. The fever of plucky patriotism which the Servian attack roused in all the Bulgarians has pulled him through the war; but he is obviously glad to be home again.)
PETKOFF.
(pointing to the table with his whip). Breakfast out here, eh?