“Is your mistress in?” And she said: “How?”
We never say “How?” like that in Canada. If we aren’t polite enough to say: “I beg your pardon,” then we say: “What?” So I thought she meant, how many rooms did I want, and I said: “Just one, thank you.”
She walked down the hall, and I heard her say to some one behind a curtain there:
“Say, Miss Darling, there’s a girl at the door. I think she’s a forriner. She sure talks and looks like no folks I knows.”
There was a quiet laugh, and then a faded little woman in a faded little kimono came hurrying down the hall. I call her “faded-looking,” because that describes her very well. Her face, once pretty, no doubt, made me think of a half-washed-out painting. Her hair was almost colorless, though I suppose it had once been dull brown. Now wisps of grayish hair stood out about her face as if ash had blown against it. She had dim, near-sighted eyes, and there was something pathetically worn-and tired-looking about her.
“Well? What is it you want?” she inquired.
I told her I wanted a little room, and said:
“I’ve just arrived from Montreal.”
“Dear me!” she exclaimed, “you must be tired!” She seemed to think Montreal was as far away as Siberia.
She showed me up three flights of stairs to a tiny room in which was a folding bed. As I had never seen a folding bed before, she opened it up and showed me how it worked. When it was down there was scarcely an inch of room left and I had to put the one chair out into the hall.