"Fernet-Branca even," I acknowledged, at last beginning to get everything straight. "Damn my eyes, but you are a marvellous girl, Pat, and I am a terrible idiot."
I picked her up quickly, opened the door and carried her along the corridor.
She lay in my arms, a silver heron, a tired bird; I turned my head aside that she should not smell my schnapps breath, and I felt that she trembled, though she smiled.
I put her in an armchair, turned on the light and brought a rug.
"If only I had had any idea, Pat—instead of lounging around I might have—Ach, miserable bonehead. I did ring up from Alfons', and whistled outside your place. I thought you weren't having any, as you didn't answer—"
"Why didn't you come back, then, after you brought me home?"
"Yes, I might have known—"
"It would be better next time if you gave me your room key as well," said she; "then I won't have to wait outside."
She smiled, but her lips quivered, and I suddenly realized what it had meant for her—this coming back, this waiting, and this plucky, jollying tone now.
"Pat," said I hastily, completely bewildered. "You're frozen, surely. You must have something to drink; I saw a light in Orlow's room when I was outside; I'll go at once, these Russians always have tea, I'll be back in a moment"—I felt myself go hot all over—"I'll never forget in all my life, Pat," said I from the doorway and went swiftly down the passage.
Orlow was still up.
He was sitting in front of his icon in the corner of the room, before which a lamp was burning; his eyes were red, and on the table a little samovar was steaming.
"Excuse me," said I, "but an unforeseen accident—could you give me some hot tea?"
Russians are accustomed to accidents.
He gave me two glasses, some sugar, and filled a plate with little cakes.
"I'm delighted to be of service," said he. "May I also— I've often been in similar . . . A few coffee beans—to chew—"
"Thank you," said I, "really, I thank you.
I'd be glad to take them."
"If you need anything else," said he with utmost gra-ciousness, "I shall be up for some time yet; it would be a pleasure to me—"
As I walked back along the corridor I munched the coffee beans.
They took away the smell of the schnapps.
Pat was sitting beside the lamp powdering herself.
I stood a moment in the doorway.
It quite touched me to see her sitting here looking so attentively into her little looking-glass and dabbing her cheeks with the powder puff.
"Drink a bit of tea," said I. "It is quite hot."
She took the glass, I watched while she drank.
"The devil only knows what was the matter to-night, Pat."
"Oh, I know," she replied.
"So?
I don't."
"And you don't have to, Robby.
You know a bit too much already, if you ask me, to be really happy."
"Maybe," said I. "But it doesn't do that I get only more and more childish the longer I know you."
"Oh, yes, it does.
Better than if you got always more and more sensible."
"That's one way of looking at it," said I. "You have a good way of helping one out of a jam.
But everything seemed to come all of a heap."
She put the glass on the table.
I leaned against the bed.
I had the feeling of having come home at last after a long, difficult journey.
The birds began twittering.
Outside a door banged.
That was Frau Bender, the orphanage nurse. I looked at my watch.
In half an hour Frida would be in the kitchen; then we would no longer be able to escape unseen.
Pat was still sleeping.
She breathed deep and regularly.
It was a shame to wake her.
But it had to be. "Pat—"
She murmured something in her sleep.
"Pat—" I cursed all furnished rooms. "Pat, it's time.