Oh God—the cry again! It was low, it was faint, it was broken with pain. He stumbled on.
[1] Very well.
CHAPTER VIII
"Is Monsieur Velasco in?"
"He is, sir."
"Tell him his manager, Galitsin, is here and must speak to him at once."
"Very well, Bárin, but—he is composing. He has been composing for days—Monsieur knows?"
"I know," said the Manager.
He was a short, thick-set man with crisp, curly hair, a wide mouth, a blunt nose, and eyes that twinkled perpetually as though at some inward joke that he did not share with the rest of the world; they twinkled now and he snapped his fingers.