They looked now with a maternal intensity into the eyes of Moisse and their smile staggered the sophistication of the young dramatist.
The little old man continued to breathe hard until he began to quiver.
He suddenly assumed command.
“Come,” he said, seizing Moisse by the palm and squeezing it. “I know a place we can go and get a room cheap and where we won’t be disturbed. It ain’t so nice a place but come.”
He squeezed the palm he held for the second time.
The deep light that had come into his little dog’s face softened and two tears rolled again out of his eyes.
He caught his breath in a sob.
“I—I don’t drink,” he said; “I’m hungry—but I can wait ... until we get through.”
He was beaming coquettishly through his tears and fondling the young dramatist’s hand.
“I can wait,” he repeated, raising his blue lips toward Moisse, his face transfigured and glowing pink.