He pocketed the cap, having carefully rolled it up, and looked around the room. He went up to an armchair, standing near a low, black, polished table.
“You permit me?” he asked courteously, seating himself.
Josaphat made a movement of the head, but the “Please do so,” dried up in his throat. He did not stir from the one spot.
“You live very well here,” said Slim, leaning back and surveying the room with a sweeping movement of his head. “Everything of a soft, half-dark tone. The atmosphere about these cushions is a tepid perfume. I can well understand how difficult it will be for you to leave this flat.”
“I have no such intention, however,” said Josaphat. He swallowed.
Slim pressed his eye-lids together, as though he wished to sleep.
“No.... Not yet.... But very soon....”
“I should not think of it,” answered Josaphat. His eyes grew red, and he looked at Slim, hatred smouldering in his gaze.
“No.... Not yet.... But very soon....”
Josaphat stood quite still: but suddenly he smote the air with his fist, as though beating against an invisible door.