“What is it, Kyra Katerina?” asked the old man sharply. “Is there not sufficient soup for two?”
“As for that, yes, there is sufficient.”
“Then pour it into two soup plates, and stay … there was a dish of potatoes left ….”
“Those are for to-morrow,” said the woman sullenly.
“I wish for them to-night.”
The woman said nothing. She pushed the red and white cover half off the table and put down the pan and the plate of salad on the yellow oilcloth underneath. Then, opening the low cupboard, she produced two soup plates and the half of a ring-shaped loaf. Then she poured the thick rice soup into the plates: it was red with tomato and smelt very good. Lastly, she took the empty pan into the back room and returned with a dish of cold potatoes and a pitcher full of water.
“I have served,” she said. “Is there perhaps anything else you want?”
Her voice sounded angry, but Kyr Themistocli took no notice of it.
“No, there is nothing. You can go.”
The stout woman pulled down her sleeves, and untying her apron threw it on the top of the unwashed plates.