Kreisler began tickling the palm of her hand slightly. When he saw it interrupted her words, he stopped, holding her hand solemnly as though it had been a fish slipped there for some unknown reason. Having her hand—her often-trenchant hand with its favourite gesture of sentimental over-emphasis—captive, made her discourse almost quiet.
“I know you have been wronged and wounded. Treat me as a sister: let me help you. You think my behaviour odd: do you think I’m a funny girl? But, ah! we walk about and torment each other enough! I knew you were not drunk, but were half-cracked with something—Perhaps you had better not come on to this place⸺”
He quickened his steps, and still gazing stolidly ahead, drew her by the hand.
“I only should like you to feel I am your friend,” she said.
“Right!” with promptness came through his practical moustache.
“You’re afraid I—” she looked at the ground, he ahead.
“No,” he said, “but you shall know my secret! Why should not I avail myself of your sympathy? You must know that my frac—useful to waiters, that is why I get so much for the poor suit—this frac is at present not in my lodgings. No. That seems puzzling to you? Have you ever noticed an imposing edifice in the Rue de Rennes, with a foot-soldier perpetually on guard? Well, he mounts guard, night and day, over my suit!” Kreisler pulled his moustache with his free hand—“Why keep you in suspense? My frac is not on my back because—it is in pawn! Now, Fräulein, that you are acquainted with the cause of my slight, rather wistful, meditative appearance, you will be able to sympathize adequately with me!”
She was crying a little, engrossed directly, now, in herself.
He thought he should console her.