They came in hastily, with half-dried hands, and she looked at them—a laugh in her round, keen face. “You have had a day!” she said. She was tall and angular, and her face had a sudden roundness—a kind of motherly, Dutch doll, set on its high, lean frame. Her body moved in soft jerks.
She heaped up the plates with quick hands, and watched the men while they ate. For a time no one spoke. The old man went to the cellar and brought up a great mug of beer, and they filled their pipes and sat smoking and sipping the beer stolidly. The windows were open to the air and the shades were up. Any one passing on the long road, over the plain, might look in on them. The woman toasted a piece of bread and moistened it with a little milk and put it, with a glass of milk, on a small tray. The men’s eyes followed her, indifferent. They watched her lift the tray and carry it to a door at the back of the room, and disappear.
They smoked on in silence.
The old man reached out for his glass. He lifted it. “Two weeks—and three more days,” he said. He sipped the beer slowly.
The larger of the two men nodded. He had dark, regular features and reddish hair. He looked heavy and tired. He opened his lips vaguely.
“Don’t talk here!” said the younger man sharply—and he gave a quick glance at the room—as a weasel returns to cover, in a narrow place.
The big man smiled. “I wa’n’t going to say anything.”
“Better not!” said the other. He cleared his pipe with his little finger. “I don’t even think,” he added softly.
The woman had come back with the tray and the men looked up, smoking.
She set the tray down by the sink and came over to them, standing with both hands on her high hips. She regarded them gravely and glanced at the tray. The milk and toast were untouched.