“Ja. I wished but to see nearer the American Fraulein's hat, and you—She is rich, so?”
“I really don't know. I think not.”
“And good?”
“Yes, of course.”
Marie was small; she stood, her head back, her eyes narrowed, looking up at Byrne. There was nothing evil in her face, it was not even hard. Rather, there was a sort of weariness, as of age and experience. She had put on a white dress, cut out at the neck, and above her collarbones were small, cuplike hollows. She was very thin.
“I was sad to-night,” she said plaintively. “I wished to jump out the window.”
Byrne was startled, but the girl was smiling at the recollection.
“And I made you feel like that?”
“Not you—the other Fraulein. I was dirt to her. I—” She stopped tragically, then sniffled.
“The sausages!” she cried, and gathering up her skirts ran toward the kitchen. Byrne went on into the sitting-room.