"It is a stable."
Kaya looked at him again and began to laugh softly: "I forgot about being a gypsey," she said, "Your clothes are ragged and torn, Velasco; they are worse than they were that night in your Studio. And I—tell me—how do I look?"
"Like a little Bradjaga, sweet, and disreputable, and boyish!"
Kaya drew herself slowly to her knees and then to her feet, brushing the straw from her velveteen trousers and the sleeves of her jacket. "They wouldn't let us in the inn because we were gypsies, was that it? They were afraid we would steal?"
The dimples came back in her face and she picked up her cap from the floor, dusting it with her elbow and cramming it down on the back of her curls. "Steal me a little bread, Velasco, I am hungry."
"Come back to your nest in the straw, Kaya; put your fingers in my pocket and steal for yourself. I bought a loaf with a couple of copecks, and some honey-cake. At sun-down, when the peasants come for their vodka, there will be a dance. They have never danced to a Stradivarius before; but they won't know the difference, Kaya, not they! We will pay for the straw with a rollicking waltz—Ha ha!"
The gypsey musician caught his comrade by the arm and pulled her down on the straw beside him.
"Which pocket, Velasco? Oh, I feel the honey-cake bulging! Give it to me."
"No—take it yourself!"
"Your pocket is so deep; it is like diving into a pool."