"No," said Kaya, "No. You don't remember, Marta, whether I said any name—any particular name? I didn't—did I?"
The nurse pondered for a moment, then she went on knitting: "I can't remember," she said, "There was something you used to repeat, over and over, a single word—it might have been a name. Won't you finish your soup, Fräulein?"
"No," said Kaya, "I am tired. Will you go down, Marta, and ask the Kapellmeister if he will come for a moment? I have something to ask him."
The nurse rose: "They are smoking still," she said, "Yes, I smell their cigars! If you have finished the soup, I will take the tray. Jesus-Maria! You are flushed, Fräulein, and before you were so white! You are sure it is not the fever come back?"
"Feel my hands," said Kaya, "Is that fever?" Then she shut her eyes. She heard clumsy footsteps descending the stairs, and then a pause; and after a moment or two steps coming back, but they were firm and quick, and her heart kept time to them.
"What did I say in my ravings?" she cried to herself, "What did he hear?"
"Nun?" said the Kapellmeister.
"I see now what hurt you," said Kaya, without raising her eyes, "You thought I wanted to repay your kindness that can never be repaid; that I was narrow and little, and was too proud to take from your hands what you gave me. Forgive me."
The Kapellmeister crossed the room and sat down on the chair that the nurse had left. He said nothing, and Kaya felt through her closed lids that he was looking at her. "How shall I ask him?" she was saying to herself, "How shall I put it into words when perhaps he understood nothing after all?"
"If you think your voice is there," said the Kapellmeister, "fresh, and not too strained for the high notes, why you can try it now. If it goes all right, I daresay we could announce 'Siegfried' for the end of the week."