The red moisture ran out of his eyes in two white tears. Moisse regarded him, frowning.
“Once you were young as I am today,” said Moisse aloud, fastening his eyes upon the top of the little old man’s head which seemed dirty and bald despite the pale hair, and alive.
“Perhaps you had ambitions and then some commonplace occurred and you lost them. And now you float around begging nickles. That’s interesting. A little old man begging nickles in the rain.”
The beggar smiled eagerly and then ventured a slight laugh.
He came closer to Moisse and stood trembling.
“Asking for crumbs,” went on Moisse with a deepening frown, “cursed at night when alone by memories that will not die. Eh?” He looked suddenly into the faded eyes and smiled.
The little old man nodded his head vigorously. He caught his breath and stood looking at Moisse with his mouth open and his cheeks wrinkled as if he were about to cry.
His breath struck the young dramatist and he averted his nose.
“Strange,” resumed he, “now you have a quarter and I have a quarter and still we remain so different. Isn’t it strange, old fellow? Yet it is the inevitable inequality of men that makes us brothers.”
The beggar was about to speak. Moisse paused and looked with interest at the round face, the quivering nostrils and the lips that were twitching into speech.