Kyra Demetroula advanced a step.
“Good day to you, Kyria,” and as she said it she pushed Mattina a little forward. “They told us that you wanted a girl to serve you, and because we have heard much good of your house, I have brought you my niece.”
“Your niece! What? That child! Much work she can do! Who sent you?”
“It was the butcher in the big road here, who told us that ….”
“Come inside! Let me see her better! I should never think of such a small maid but that it is a bad season for servants, and that I have been three days without one.” Then turning to Mattina, “How old are you?”
Now no one had ever thought of telling Mattina her age; she was a big girl, since her mother had often trusted her of late to make the bread, and that was all she knew about it. She looked up at the woman and noticed that she had little black eyes like currants, a nose that went in before it came out, and a mouth that had no lips; then she quietly answered her question by another one.
“How should I know my years?”
Her aunt interposed hurriedly:—
“She must be fourteen, Kyria.”
“Fourteen! Vegetable marrows! She is not even twelve! From where is she?”