“Come mit me, Seedney; you have to move,” she said breezily as she pushed back from the early breakfast table one Saturday morning.
Sydney looked up apprehensively.
“Have no fear,” she began smilingly, yet her face saddened a little. “Poor boy! You have so often to move in your life you are afraid of the word, nicht wahr? I send you not away. Think not so.”
Sydney’s face cleared and he followed her upstairs.
“It iss here you will stay.” She stopped at the open door of a well furnished chamber, the second finest of the six sleeping rooms.
“Why? I am perfectly satisfied with my own place.”
“This iss your own place now.”
“But it is even finer than Max’s.”
She looked at him keenly for a moment and dropped into a chair. “Here by me sit; I speak mit you of something important.” For a little she was silent, and he knew she was striving to find words in the troublesome English that would correctly voice her thought.
“I wonder if you shall understand what I am now to say? When you came to me you had not much luxury seen; nicht wahr? Iss it not so?” she translated quickly.