“No. No. Just thinking,” said Bernstein, talking rapidly. “Sit down. Here, opposite me. The light hurts my eyes. Come, let us have some chai. Here, waiter! Two chais. Have them hot, with plenty of rum.”
“You seem nervous, Bernstein. Aren’t you well?” asked Natzi, solicitously.
“Oh, smoking too much. But let us talk about yourself. How is the wood-carving business? Any better?”
Natzi shook his head, ruefully. “Worse,” he answered. “They’re doing everything by machinery these days, and the machines seem to be improving all the time. The work is all mechanical now. The only real pleasure I get out of my tools is at night when I am home. Then I can carve the things I like—things that don’t sell.”
The waiter brought two cups of chai, with the blue flames leaping brightly from the burning rum on the surface. Bernstein’s eyes were intent upon the flames.
“I have not yet congratulated you,” he said.
He did not see the look that came into Natzi’s eyes—a look of tenderness, of earnestness, a look that Bernstein had never seen there, although he had known Natzi many years.
“Yes,” said Natzi, thoughtfully. “I am to be congratulated. It is more than I deserve. I am not worthy.”
Bernstein’s gaze was fastened upon the flames. They were dancing brightly upon the amber liquid.
“She is so beautiful, so sweet, so pure,” Natzi went on. “To think that all that happiness is for me!”