"One, two—one, two—one, two, three."
The younger gypsey sat cross-legged on the floor, gazing down at the whirling crowd, blurred by the smoke. In his hands he held a tambourine, which he shook occasionally in rhythm with the waltz, glancing over his shoulder at his companion and laughing. Occasionally they whispered together.
"You play too well, Velasco! Hist—scratch with the bow!"
"I can't, Kaya, it is maddening!"
"Just a little, Velasco."
"Is that better? Týsyacha chertéi, how it rasps one's ears!"
"Yes, but your technique, Velasco! No gypsey could play like that! Leave out the double stops and the trills!"
"I forget, little one, I forget! The Stradivarius plays itself. Keep the castanet rattling and then I will remember."
"Velasco, hist—st! There are strangers standing by the door; they have just come in! Scratch a little more, just a little. Your tone is so deep and so pure. When you rubato, and then quicken suddenly, and the notes come in a rush like that, I can hardly keep still. My pulses are leaping, dancing! One, two—one, two, three!"
"Is that right? Don't ask me to scratch, Kaya! I can't bear it so close to my ear. The din of their stamping is frightful, the swine! No one will notice."