“No,” he replied, putting his jacket on. “Do you want me to?”
“It would be of certain use. But don’t put yourself out,” with grin tightening all the skin of her face, making it pink and bald and her eyes drunken.
“I’m afraid I can’t.” Watched with sort of appreciative raillery, he got down on his knees and dragged a portmanteau from beneath the bed. “Susanna, what can I get on that?” he asked simply, as of an expert.
“Ah, that’s where we are? You want to pawn this? I don’t know, I’m sure. Perhaps they’d give you fifteen francs. It’s good leather.”
“Perhaps twenty?” he asked. “I must have them!” he clamoured of a sudden, with energy that astonished her.
She grimaced, looked very serious; said, “Je ne sais pas, vous savez!” with several vigorous, yet rhythmical and rich, forward movements of the head. She became the broker: Kreisler was pressing for a sum in excess of regulations. Not for the world, any more than had she been the broker in fact, would she have valued it at a penny over what it seemed likely to fetch.
“Je ne sais pas, vous savez!” she repeated. She looked even worried. She would have liked to please Kreisler by saying more, but her business conscience prevented her.
“Well, we’ll go together.”
This conversation was carried on strictly in dialect. Suzanne understood him, for she was largely responsible for the lingo in which Kreisler carried on conversation with the French. This young woman had no fixed occupation. She disappeared for periods to live with men. She sat as a model.
“Your father hasn’t sent yet?” He shook his head.