When the youth was gone, however, he
remembered with relief that he had not given his address.

'Better so,' he reflected. 'A humbug, no doubt.'

"What was that you said to him?" he asked of the Hungarian.

"I said," answered Boleskey, "'You have eaten and drunk; and now you are
my enemy!'"

"Quite right!" said Swithin, "quite right! A beggar is every man's
enemy."

"You do not understand," the Hungarian replied politely. "While he was a
beggar--I, too, have had to beg" (Swithin thought, 'Good God! this is
awful!'), "but now that he is no longer hungry, what is he but a German?
No Austrian dog soils my floors!"

His nostrils, as it seemed to Swithin, had distended in an unpleasant
fashion; and a wholly unnecessary raucousness invaded his voice. "I am
an exile--all of my blood are exiles. Those Godless dogs!" Swithin
hurriedly assented.

As he spoke, a face peeped in at the door.

"Rozsi!" said the Hungarian. A young girl came in. She was rather
short, with a deliciously round figure and a thick plait of hair. She
smiled, and showed her even teeth; her little, bright, wide-set grey eyes
glanced from one man to the other. Her face was round, too, high in the
cheekbones, the colour of wild roses, with brows that had a twist-up at
the corners. With a gesture of alarm, she put her hand to her cheek, and
called, "Margit!" An older girl appeared, taller, with fine shoulders,
large eyes, a pretty mouth, and what Swithin described to himself
afterwards as a "pudding" nose. Both girls, with little cooing sounds,
began attending to their father's face.

Swithin turned his back to them. His arm pained him.

'This is what comes of interfering,' he thought sulkily; 'I might have
had my neck broken!' Suddenly a soft palm was placed in his, two eyes,
half-fascinated, half-shy, looked at him; then a voice called, "Rozsi!"
the door was slammed, he was alone again with the Hungarian, harassed by
a sense of soft disturbance.

"Your daughter's name is Rosy?" he said; "we have it in England--from
rose, a flower."

"Rozsi (Rozgi)," the Hungarian replied; "your English is a hard tongue,
harder than French, German, or Czechish, harder than Russian, or
Roumanian--I know no more."

"What?" said Swithin, "six languages?" Privately he thought, 'He knows
how to lie, anyway.'

"If you lived in a country like mine," muttered the Hungarian, "with all
men's hands against you! A free people--dying--but not dead!"

Swit