Page:Storm Over Paris.pdf/75

though demanding special respect; with its gleaming coat of green enamel. It had nothing in common with the surrounding squalor, and had only stumbled by accident into these low surroundings, whereas it really belonged in the most aristocratic of kitchens. Why, it could cook the most appetizing dishes; just let someone try, and it would flare up with its pretty blue flames and drive the surrounding poverty into oblivion.

In the middle of the room, precariously supported by two chairs, stood a washtub, filled with soaking laundry. Abandoned by the suddenly stricken housewife, it waited patiently and uncomplainingly. Tick-tock went the clock, dragging the minutes along with it.

The door opened and the two children came in, perspiring and dirty. When they saw their mother in bed, they stood hesitantly at the door, as though somehow guilty of some crime.

"Please, Anna, would you be good enough to help them get to bed."

"Have they eaten already?"

"Yes," Gertrude answered. "And please hurry. I'm expecting a visitor."

Anna could tell from the other's tone that the visitor she expected would not be a particularly welcome one. She quickly washed the children, gave them each a glass of milk, and put them to bed. The two heads, one blonde, the other dark, were soon still, the little chests moving in rhythmic rest.

A quiet stole over the room, enfolding the two women in its aura, until a sudden tap at the door broke the stillness.

"Shall I open it?" Anna asked.

"Wait a minute." Gertrude listened intently; a violet-tinged shadow spread over her features.