"But—but I let the room," he said, flushing. "I did not know that—I could not afford—"
"Never mind, we will find a room. The day is yet high." She settled with the porter.
Meantime Srul had begun playing nervously with a pair of scissors. He snipped a gorgeous piece of stuff to fragments.
"What are you doing?" said Biela at last.
"Oh—I—" he burst into a nervous laugh. "And so you ran the blockade after all. But—but I expect customers every minute—we can't talk now. Go inside and rest, Biela: you will find a sofa in the parlour. Leah, I want—I want to talk to you."
Leah flashed a swift glance at him as Biela, vaguely chilled, moved through the back door into the revivifying splendours of the parlour.
"Something is wrong, Srul," Leah said hoarsely. "Tsirrélé is not here. You feared to tell us."
He hung his head. "I did my best."
"She is ill—dead, perhaps! My beautiful angel!"
He opened his eyes. "Dead? No. Married!"