“Hey, what’s the matter with you?” cried Prokop, shaking him.
Daimon opened his glassy eyes with difficulty.
“What . . . what’s up?” he muttered, raised himself up a little and shook himself. “Aha! I’m . . . I’m . . . That’s nothing.” He rubbed his forehead and yawned convulsively. “Yes. I’ll show you to your room, eh?” He was horribly pale and his Tartar face had suddenly grown flabby. He walked uncertainly as if his limbs were numbed. “Come then.”
He went straight to the room in which they had left the girl sleeping. “Ah,” he cried from the doorway, “the beauty has woke up. Come in, please.”
She was kneeling by the hearth. Evidently she had just lit the fire and was looking into a crackling flame. “Look how she’s arranged it,” said Daimon appreciatively. Certainly the stuffy and depressing aspect of the room had disappeared in the most extraordinary way; it was now pleasant and unpretentious like a room in one’s own home.
“How clever you are,” said Daimon admiringly. “Girl, you ought to settle down.” She stood up and, became red and confused. “Don’t be frightened now,” said Daimon. “Here’s the comrade you like.”
“Yes. I like him,” she said simply, and went over and closed the window and pulled down the blinds.
The stove threw a pleasant heat into the bright room. “Child, you’ve made everything very nice,” said Daimon, gratified, warming his hands. “I should like to stay here.”
