“Of course! But I am hard up. How much—?” These were three jerky efforts.
“Oh, a hundred and fifty or two hundred marks.”
Volker’s jaw dropped.
“I am afraid, my dear Kreisler, I can’t—just now—manage that. My journey, too, cost me a lot. I’m very sorry. Let me see. I have my rent next week? I don’t see how I can manage⸺”
Volker had a clean-shaven, depressed, and earnest face. He had always been honest and timid.
Kreisler looked sulkily at the tablecloth and knocked the ash sharply off his cigarette into his cup.
He said nothing. Volker became nervous.
“Will a hundred marks be of any use?”
“Yes.” Kreisler drew his hand over his chin as though stroking a beard down and then pulled his moustaches up, fixing the waitress with an indifferent eye. “Can you spare that?”
“Well—I can’t really. But if you are in such a position that⸺”