Then the other culprit began to stir about among the pans. Maida was staring at her with lips partly open, her breath still coming short and thick.
"Turn on the light," said Mary Louise.
And then as Maida made no move:
"Go fix yourself up. There's someone in the room waiting to be served." Her voice was heavy with the scorn she felt.
Maida recovered. She bit her lip. Then she laughed a short, nervous laugh. "Shocked to death, aren't you?"
"Not at all," replied Mary Louise pleasantly. "It's quite charming, I assure you." She turned and entered the kitchen. The other cook and a maid were quietly attending to their work. She paid them no attention but went and stood by the back window over which was stretched a heavy wire screen, and through the thick dust of which she could see a dim, dusty, narrow courtyard and a pile of discarded boxes.
For a long time she stood there, with her hands folded one upon the other and resting limply upon a table. The world had taken on a grotesque slant. It was a strange place in which it was easy to lose one's way. Her assurance, her satisfaction, her enthusiasm had vanished. Nothing was well ordered; everything was haphazard. People did the most unexpected things. And there was ugliness and deceit parading about in broad daylight. She suddenly felt herself utterly incapable of passing judgment on anything.
And as she stood staring out through that dingy window, with the bustle and sounds of feet behind her, two fat round tears welled from her eyes and rolled slowly down her cheeks.