"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."

Why Maria should associate the release of the mythical squirrel with
her name could not be said. About Maria the flat knew absolutely nothing
further than that she was Spanish-American. Miss Baker was the oldest
lodger in the flat, and Maria was a fixture there as maid of all work
when she had come. There was a legend to the effect that Maria's people
had been at one time immensely wealthy in Central America.

Maria turned again to her work. Trina and Marcus watched her curiously.