Now, as I walked toward Smith, carrying my suitcase, he observed my advent with hopeful hunger-stricken eyes.
"If yonder maid with yonder mop can cook, and has the makings of a civilized meal in this joint of yours, for heaven's sake tell her to get on the job," he said. "What do you usually call her—if not Katie?"
"How do I know? I've never before laid eyes on her."
"You don't know the name of your own cook?"
"How should I? Did you think she was part of the estate? That boche attorney, Schmitz, at Berne, promised to send up somebody to look after the place until I made up my mind what I was going to do. That's the lady, I suppose. And Smith—did you ever see such very red hair on any human woman?"
I may have spoken louder than I meant to; evidently my voice carried, for the girl looked over her shabby shoulder and greeted us with a clear, fresh, unfeigned, untroubled peal of laughter. I felt myself growing red. However, I approached her. She wore a very dirty dress—but her face and hands were dirtier.
"Did Schmitz engage you and are you to look out for us?" I inquired in German.
"If you please," she replied in French, leaning on her mop and surveying us out of two large gray eyes set symmetrically under the burnished tangle of her very remarkable hair.
"My child," I said in French, "why are you so dirty? Have you by chance been exploring the chimney?"
"I have been cleaning fireplaces and pots and pans, Monsieur. But I will make my toilet and put on a fresh apron for luncheon."