The dancing had stopped, and threading their way through the groups came several ladies and a gentleman.
"Bradjaga," said the landlord, "This is Ivan Petrokoff, the famous musician of Moscow, who has deigned to honour my humble house with his presence. He wishes to examine your instrument."
The gentleman nodded brusquely and stretched out a fat hand. He was short and quite bald, and he stuttered as he spoke. "Quite a d-decent fiddle for a gypsey," he said, "Let me s-see it!"
Velasco bowed with his hand on his heart: "It is mine," he said in a humble voice, "A thousand pardons, Bárin! Impossible!"
"I will p-pay you for it!" said the gentleman angrily, "How much do you w-want?"
Velasco smiled and put his hand to his heart again, shrugging his shoulders.
"Not that it is of any p-particular value," continued Petrokoff, "but I like the t-tone. I will give you—hm—s-sixty-five roubles!"
Velasco drew the bow softly over the strings; he was still smiling.
"Seventy! That is exorbitant for a g-gypsey's fiddle! You could buy a d-dozen other instruments for that, just as good! Come—will you t-take it?"
Velasco began to trill softly on the G string, and then swept over the arch with an arpeggio pianissimo.