"Of course," said Velasco, "After my concerts I am always like that. It is—" He shuddered. "A black depression creeps over one. Bózhe moi! It is awful! Is that what you mean?"
"No," she said, "that is not what I meant. Tell me, Monsieur, have you ever cared for any one?"
Velasco stretched his cramped limbs and yawned. "Never, any one particularly," he said, "that I can think of. I used to like my old master in Warsaw; and I have friends; good gracious! All over Russia and Germany I have friends. You don't mean that?"
The girl stirred uneasily against his arm.
"Was that another rat?" she said, "I felt something run over my dress."
"Draw the cloak to your chin," whispered Velasco, "Huddle yourself in it. There, are you warm? Put your head down again. One moment you are like a boy ready to fight the universe, the next you shake at the sound of a rat.—Kaya!"
"Yes, Monsieur?"
She shivered, clinging to him.
"What did you say? Say it again; don't tremble like that."
"I would die," she whispered, "A thousand times I would die rather than have brought this on you. If I had known—if I had guessed!"