"Workun hard nowadays, Maria?"
"Pretty hard."
"Didunt always have to work for your living, though, did you, when you
ate offa gold dishes?" Maria didn't answer, except by putting her chin
in the air and shutting her eyes, as though to say she knew a long story
about that if she had a mind to talk. All Marcus's efforts to draw her
out on the subject were unavailing. She only responded by movements of
her head.
"Can't always start her going," Marcus told his cousin.
"What does she do, though, when you ask her about her name?"
"Oh, sure," said Marcus, who had forgotten. "Say, Maria, what's your
name?"
"Huh?" asked Maria, straightening up, her hands on he hips.
"Tell us your name," repeated Marcus.
"Name is Maria--Miranda--Macapa." Then, after a pause, she added, as
though she had but that moment thought of it, "Had a flying squirrel an'
let him go."
Invariably Maria Macapa made this answer. It was not always she would
talk about the famous service of gold plate, but a question as to her
name never failed to elicit the same strange answer, delivered in a
rapid undertone: "Name is Maria--Miranda--Macapa." Then, as if struck
with an after thought, "Had a flying squirrel an' let him go.
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