“You stood over there,” he cried, still dancing; “the music had begun and I was not your partner—but I caught you away before you could say no, and we danced—tol te tol te tol—”
Pelleas was performing with his back to the hall door when it opened softly, and he did not hear. There stood Nichola. I have never before seen that grim old woman look astonished, but at sight of the flying figure of Pelleas she seemed ready to run away. It was something to see old Nichola taken aback. Our old servant is a brave woman, afraid of nothing in the world but an artificial bath heater which she would rather die than light, but the spectacle of Pelleas, dancing, seemed actually to frighten her. She stood silent for a full minute—and this in itself was amazing in Nichola, who if she went often to the theater would certainly answer back to the player talk. Then Pelleas faced the door and saw her. He stopped short as if he had been a toy and some one had dropped the string. He was frightfully abashed and was therefore never more haughty.
“Nichola,” he said with lifted brows, “we did not ring.”
Nichola remained motionless, her little bead eyes which have not grown old with the rest of her quite round in contemplation.
“We are busy, Nichola,” repeated Pelleas, slightly raising his voice.
Then Nichola regained full consciousness and rolled her eyes naturally.
“Yah!” said she, with a dignity too fine for scorn. “Busy!”
Really, Nichola tyrannizes over us in a manner not to be borne. Every day we tell each other this.
Pelleas looked at me rather foolishly when she had disappeared.
“That was the way it went,” said he, ignoring the interruption as one always does when one is nettled. “Tol te tol te tol—”