Page:Storm Over Paris.pdf/72

bed! Wide enough for an army! How can one person sleep in it all alone!" Yaska coughed discreetly. "I mean to say- that is-" he went on in a babble of meaningless words.

Anna stood quiet, hardly knowing whether to turn and flee from it, or stand patiently and let the endless chatter flow over her.

"I'd even be ready to bet," Yaska went on, after he had paused for breath.

"Bet what?" she yawned.

"That you don't know what's going on outside."

"Well, if I don't know, why don't you tell me?" she said.

"That would be no trick at all. Suppose you stir those sleepy, bourgeois brains of yours and see if you can guess."

"How can I guess what's happening out in the street. Maybe it's raining, or snowing, or raining and snowing at the same time."

Yaska put his hands to his sides and howled with laughter.

"A genius, as I live!" he managed to gasp. "Figured it out with her own head! And not even a clue from anybody!"

The exaggerated sarcasm brought the blood to Anna's cheeks. Yaska fell silent. He went over to the table, smoothed the cloth with his hand, lifted a corner of it as though he might be searching for something, then dropped it and straightened it out again. After an uncomfortable pause he began to talk.

"A street," he said, "is-if you'll pardon the comparison- like a human being. It has its days of rejoicing. Today, for example, it is in a specially good mood. History is being made today. A People's Front is going to be voted in today- so naturally the street's cheeks are flushed and its blood is coursing merrily through its veins."

"What makes you so positive that the People's Front will win?" asked Anna, her tone somewhat belligerent.