Next morning there was not a carriage to be had, and Swithin was
compelled to put off his departure till the morrow. The day was grey and
misty; he wandered about with the strained, inquiring look of a lost dog
in his eyes.
Late in the afternoon he went back to his lodgings. In a corner of
the sitting-room stood Rozsi. The thrill of triumph, the sense of
appeasement, the emotion, that seized on him, crept through to his lips
in a faint smile. Rozsi made no sound, her face was hidden by her hands.
And this silence of hers weighed on Swithin. She was forcing him to
break it. What was behind her hands? His own face was visible! Why
didn't she speak? Why was she here? Alone? That was not right surely.
Suddenly Rozsi dropped her hands; her flushed face was quivering—it
seemed as though a word, a sign, even, might bring a burst of tears.
He walked over to the window. 'I must give her time!' he thought; then
seized by unreasoning terror at this silence, spun round, and caught
her by the arms. Rozsi held back from him, swayed forward and buried her
face on his breast....
Half an hour later Swithin was pacing up and down his room. The scent of
rose leaves had not yet died away. A glove lay on the floor; he picked
it up, and for a long time stood weighing it in his hand. All sorts of
confused thoughts and feelings haunted him. It was the purest and least
selfish moment of his life, this moment after she had yielded. But that
pure gratitude at her fiery, simple abnegation did not last; it was
followed by a petty sense of triumph, and by uneasiness. He was still
weighing the little glove in his hand, when he had another visitor. It
was Kasteliz.
“What can I do for you?” Swithin asked ironically.
The Hungarian seemed suffering from excitement. Why had Swithin left
his charges the night before? What excuse had he to make? What sort of
conduct did he call this?
Swithin, very like a bull-dog at that moment, answered: What business
was it of his?
The business of a gentleman! What right had the Englishman to pursue a
young girl?
“Pursue?” said Swithin; “you've been spying, then?”
“Spying—I—Kasteliz—Maurus Johann—an insult!”
“Insult!” sneered Swithin; “d'you mean to tell me you weren't in the
street just now?”
Kasteliz answered with a hiss, “If you do not leave the city I will make
you, with my sword—do you understand?”
“And if you do not leave my room I will throw you out of the window!”
For some minutes Kasteliz spoke in pure Hungarian while Swithin waited,
with a forced smile and a fixed look in his eye. He did not understand
Hungarian.
“If you are still in the city to-morrow evening,” said Kasteliz at last
in English, “I will spit you in the street.”
Swithin turned to the window and watched his visitor's retiring back
with a queer mixture of amusement, stubbornness, and anxiety. 'Well,' he
thought, 'I suppose he'll run me through!' The thought was unpleasant;
and it kept recurring, but it only served to harden his determination.
His head was busy with plans for seeing Rozsi; his blood on fire with
the kisses she had given him.