“Not—usual,” said Maya shyly.
“Of course, of course!” cried Alois, trying to raise one shoulder, but not succeeding, on account of the firm set of his dome. “As a bourgeoise you would, of course, do only what is usual. We poets would not get very far that way.—Have you time?”
“Why, yes,” said Maya.
“Then I’ll recite you one of my poems. Sit real still and close your eyes, so that nothing distracts your attention. The poem is called Man’s Finger, and is about a personal experience. Are you listening?”
“Yes, to every word.”
“Well, then:
“‘Since you did not do me wrong,
That you found me, doesn’t matter.
You are rounded, you are long;
Up above you wear a flatter,