Cynthia could have hugged her, right then and there. Why she hadn’t heard a word of English for three whole days.
“Oh, yes!” she almost shouted. “And oh, is that hash you are cooking?”
The girl giggled, then sniffed appreciatively. “Does smell good, doesn’t it? Mother’s a swell cook. Look here ...” she opened the door that had half closed behind her. “Hey, Mums, have we got enough for a guest?” and before Cynthia could object, had shoved her ahead, down the hallway, into a wide room lit by late sunlight.
“Take off your mittens and bonnet and shawl,” laughed the girl. “You’re invited to dinner ... that is if you can stay. Mums, this is Miss America, winner of all beauty prizes to date, isn’t she pretty? ...” Heavens how the girl did rattle on, thought the amused Cynthia. ... “I found her fainting on our doorstep and brought her in.”
“Mums” was wide and comfortable looking in a huge white apron and carried a turning-spoon in her hand. She seemed unperturbed by her daughter’s nonsense.
“My name’s Wanstead, Cynthia,” explained the owner of that name. “And I do hope you will forgive me. I sniffed your delicious cooking two flights up.”
“Good grief, I must have left that door open again!” rattled the girl. “We’d just about lose our French lease if they sniff our cooking in the hall. Oh, I forgot, my name is Murchison. This is Mrs. Murchison, my honored parent. ... Listen I’ve got to run out with some letters for the post. Sit still and I’ll be back in a jiffy.”
Cynthia was only too glad to sit. Normally she would have protested more strongly against their forced hospitality, but today, homesick and genuinely hungry and considerably worried about the future, she found this American household irresistible. Mrs. Murchison puttered into the room and out again murmuring absentmindedly: “Father loves corn-beef hash. ... Can’t get French cook to make it properly. ... Marie, our cook, gone home for the holidays ...” and still murmuring disappeared at last in the direction of the kitchen.
Over the delicious dinner Cynthia heard the story of the mysterious holiday. “It’s the Jour de Bastille,” Alice explained to her, “in celebration of the destruction of that beastly prison. The French never have a half-holiday. They save it up and make four days of it. Father’s in the consular service and had to be home for tomorrow morning, but most Americans who live here plan to stay out of Paris during these four days, they’re so noisy. Our cook won’t be worth her salt for the next week, she’ll be so sleepy. If you ask me, you look half asleep.”
“I’ve had one of those bands under my window for the past three nights,” apologized Cynthia. “Please, can I have some more hash?”