“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.