“I guess I do know,” said Sylvia. “I saw everybody craning their necks, and all them strangers. You've got a lot of strangers at the hotel, haven't you, Lucinda?”
“Yes,” said Lucinda, and there was an echo in her monosyllable like an expletive.
Sylvia nodded sympathizingly. “Some of them write for the papers, I suppose?” said she.
“Some of them. I know it's my bread-and-butter to have them, but I never saw such a parcel of folks. Talk about eyes in the backs of heads, they're all eyes and all ears. Sometimes I think they ain't nothing except eyes and ears and tongue. But there's a lot besides who like to think maybe they're eating poison. I know I'm watched every time I stir up a mite of cake, but I stir away.”
“You must have your hands full.”
“Yes; I had to get Abby Smith to come in and help.”
“She ain't good for much.”
“No, she ain't. She's thinkin' all the time of how she looks, instead of what she's doing. She waits on table, though, and helps wash dishes. She generally forgets to pass the vegetables till the meat is all et up, and they're lucky if they get any butter; but I can't help it. They only pay five dollars a week, and get a lot of enjoyment out of watching me and Hannah, and they can't expect everything.”
The two women walked along the country road. There were many other people besides the church-going throng in their Sunday best, but they seemed isolated, although closely watched. Presently, however, a young man, well dressed in light gray, with a white waistcoat, approached them.
“Why, good-day, Miss Hart!” he said, raising his hat.