“I don’t know,” said Prokop uncertainly.
Then the door, which had not been completely closed, was burst open and there dashed into the room something small and shaggy which whined with delight and jumped on to Prokop’s bed.
“Honzik!” cried the girl apprehensively. “What are you doing?” But the little animal was already licking Prokop’s face and in excited joy had snuggled down into the coverlet. Prokop wiped his face with his hand and was disconcerted to find that he had a full beard. “Bu—but,” he stammered, and became silent with surprise. The dog was in the seventh heaven; with overflowing devotion he bit at Prokop’s hands, yelped, and snorted, thrusting his wet muzzle up to his chest.
“Honzik!” cried the girl, “you’re mad! Leave the gentleman alone!” and she ran to the bed and took the dog in her arms. “Honzik, you are stupid!”
“Leave him alone,” said Prokop.
“But you’ve got a bad hand,” objected the girl with great seriousness, pressing the struggling dog to her breast.
Prokop regarded his right hand doubtfully. Across the palm there stretched a broad scar covered with a new, thin, red membrane which was pleasantly itching. “Where deep where am I?” said he in surprise.
“At our house,” said the girl, as if it were the most self-evident thing in the world, and Prokop was reassured at once. “At your house,” he said with relief, although he had no idea where that might be. “And how long?”
