She must be grieving over mankind.

It is her duty to see that no spoon is lost, and not an orange or banana wasted, and her mournful eyes are fixed with the intensity of despair upon the incompetent waiters, who, when hard pressed by wild shouts from American officers, frantic for lack of proper nourishment, fall into a panic and dance and squeal at each other; and then the woman of fixed sorrow, her left shoulder thin and copper-colored, thrust from her low-necked dress, her right shoulder protected, is in the midst of the pack, with a gliding bound and the ferocity of a cat, the sadness of her face taking on a tinge of long-suffering rage.

She whirls the fools here and there as they are wanted.

Having disentangled the snarl, she returns to the door from which her eyes command both the pantry and the dining-room to renew her solemn round of mournful vigilance.

The Americans are outside her jurisdiction.