I made no answer.
"Who's that?" I asked Pat when he moved off.
"A musician.
Violinist.
Hopelessly in love with the Spaniard.
The way one does fall in love up here.
But she won't look at him.
She's in love with the Russian."
"So should I be in her place."
Pat laughed.
"Seems to me that's a chap you might fall in love with," said I. "Don't you agree?" "No," she replied.
"Have you never been in love here?"
"Not very much."
"It wouldn't make any difference to me," said I.
"That's a nice confession." Pat straightened. "Then it ought to make a difference to you."
"I don't mean it that way.
I can't explain how I do mean it.
And I can't explain, because I still don't know what you can find in me."
"Leave that to me," she replied.
"Do you know then?"
"Not exactly," she replied with a smile. "Else it wouldn't be love any more."
The Russian had left the bottles.
I poured myself a few glasses.
The atmosphere in the room oppressed me.
I did not like seeing Pat here among all these sick people.
"Don't you like it here?" she asked.
"Not very much.
I need to get used to it first."
"My poor darling—" She stroked my hand.
"I'm not poor while you're here," said I.
"Isn't Rita very beautiful?"
"No," said I. "You are more beautiful."
The young Spaniard had a guitar on her knees.
She plucked a few chords.
Then she began singing and it was as if some dark bird hovered in the room.
She sang Spanish songs in a muted voice—the hoarse, infirm voice of the sick.
I don't know if it was the strange, melancholy songs, or the tremulous, twilight voice of the girl, or the shadows of the sick people cowering darkly in armchairs and on the floor, or the big, bowed, dark face of the Russian, but suddenly it came over me that all her song was only a sobbing, still exorcism of the fate standing outside beyond the curtained windows, waiting—a plea, a protest, and fear, fear of being alone with the quietly devouring Nothingness.
The next morning Pat was in high spirits.
She busied herself with her dress.
"It's got too wide, much too wide," she murmured, eyeing it in the looking-glass.
Then she turned to me. "Did you bring a dinner suit with you, darling?"
"No," said I. "Didn't know I'd have any use for one here."
"Then go to Antonio.
He'll lend you one.
You are the same figure."
"But he'll want it himself."
"He's wearing tails." She pinned a pleat. "And then go for a ski.
I must get busy here.
And I can't while you're about."
"Your Antonio—" said I. "I'm robbing him properly.