“As you like.” Then, as she opened the door, she added, “A nice work it will be in the morning to have to clean the floor after a shoeblack’s dusty feet.” Then she passed out and shut the door quickly before Kyr Themistocli could answer.
“Eat your soup, and do not mind her,” he said to Aleko.
“I do not mind her,” said Aleko, taking a big spoonful of soup; and after swallowing it, he added sagely, “Women always make much noise.”
The blind man ate slowly and did not always find his mouth exactly. Aleko saw, now, why there were so many stains on his clothes. When he had finished he pushed his plate back.
“Tell me, now, what do they call you?”
“They call me Aleko.”
“From where?”
“My mother lives in Megaloupolis, and I was born there and the little ones, but my father was not from there.”
Kyr Themistocli noticed the past tense.
“He is dead, your father?”