“You read well,” said Kyr Themistocli slowly. “Will you come again? you will give me pleasure.”
“I will come every day.” Then Aleko got up and began carrying the plates off the table into the kitchen at the back. He returned with a lighted candle.
“Now,” he said, “I will tidy up a little so that the cross woman will not have so many words to say to-morrow. As for her floor …” and he looked at it with disgust, “it is so dusty that anyone who walks over it will take dust away instead of adding any! Does she come every day?” he asked suddenly.
“Yes, she cleans and cooks for me.”
“And you pay her?”
“Naturally.”
“Kyr Themistocli, you must find another woman who will have a little conscience; this one, because you cannot see … she lets you live in dirt.” He took up the cover and shook it vigorously out of the window. “But what dust! It is a sin to take money for such dirty work! Ah,” he continued, polishing the window panes with a piece of torn newspaper, “you ought to have my mother to work for you! Then you would see what your house would be like!”
“Your mother is a good housewife?”
“She is the best in Megaloupolis; all say it. What would she say if she saw this room? And my clothes also,” he added, looking at them ruefully. “But when one works, what can one do?”
When he had finished, he blew out the candle. “Since it is useless to you,” he remarked, “why should it burn in vain?” Then he came close to the old man and laid his hand on his knee.