The newly risen sun was behind her, shooting misty beams across a lake of mother-of-pearl. The artist, latent in every man, arrested Sam, forcing him to wonder and admire.
Bela looked up calmly. "I waitin' till the men get up," she remarked.
"I'll call them," he offered, making a move to turn.
"Let them sleep," commanded Bela. "It is early."
Sam became uncomfortably conscious of his unkempt condition. "You caught me unawares," he said. "I haven't washed up yet."
She glanced at him sidewise. Had he known it, he did not appear altogether at a disadvantage with his fair hair tousled and his shirt open at the throat.
"I don't care," she said, with a child's air of unconcern.
Presently she caught sight of the razor. "You got hair grow on your chin, too? That is fonny thing. Ot'er day I watch the curly-head one scrape his face. He not see me. What for you want scrape your face?"
Sam blushed. "Oh, it looks like a hobo if you don't," he stammered.
She repeated the word with a comical face. "What is hobo?"