“So would I,” returned Frances, with more meaning in her manner of speaking than in her words. “Does Major King’s interdiction extend to the commissary? Am I going to be allowed to eat?”
“Maggie’s got it all ready; I ran up to call you.” Nola slipped her arm round Frances’ waist and led her toward the kitchen, where Maggie had the table spread. “You’ll not mind the kitchen? The house is so upset by those soldiers in it that we have no privacy left.”
“Prisoners and pensioners should eat in the kitchen,” Frances returned, trying to make a better appearance of friendliness for Nola than she carried in her heart.
Maggie was full of apologies for the poor service and humble surroundings. “It is the doings of miss,” she whispered, in her native sibilant Mexican, when Nola found an excuse to leave Frances alone at her meal.
“It doesn’t matter, Maggie; you eat in the kitchen, both of us are women.”
“Yes, and some saints’ images are made of lead, some of gold.”
“But they are all saints’ images, Maggie.”
“The kitchen will be brighter from this day,” Maggie declared, in the extravagant way of her race, only meaning more than usually carries in a Castilian compliment.
She backed away from the table, never having it in her delicate nature to be so rude as to turn her 288 back upon her guest, and admired Frances from a distance. The sun was reaching through a low window, moving slowly up the cloth as if stealing upon the guest to give her a good-night kiss.
“Ah, miss!” sighed Maggie, her hands clasped as in adoration, “no wonder that he lives with a well in his body. He has much to live for, and that is the truth from a woman’s lips.”