ker--you fly."

She stretched herself, a shiver seemed to pass all down her. "Margit!
dance!" and, to Swithin's consternation, the two girls--their hands on
each other's shoulders--began shuffling their feet and swaying to and
fro. Their heads were thrown back, their eyes half-closed; suddenly the
step quickened, they swung to one side, then to the other, and began
whirling round in front of him. The sudden fragrance of rose leaves
enveloped him. Round they flew again. While they were still dancing,
Boleskey came into the room. He caught Swithin by both hands.

"Brother, welcome! Ah! your arm is hurt! I do not forget." His yellow
face and deep-set eyes expressed a dignified gratitude. "Let me
introduce to you my friend Baron Kasteliz."

Swithin bowed to a man with a small forehead, who had appeared softly,
and stood with his gloved hands touching his waist. Swithin conceived a
sudden aversion for this catlike man. About Boleskey there was that
which made contempt impossible--the sense of comradeship begotten in the
fight; the man's height; something lofty and savage in his face; and an
obscure instinct that it would not pay to show distaste; but this
Kasteliz, with his neat jaw, low brow, and velvety, volcanic look,
excited his proper English animosity. "Your friends are mine," murmured
Kasteliz. He spoke with suavity, and hissed his s's. A long, vibrating
twang quavered through the room. Swithin turned and saw Rozsi sitting at
the czymbal; the notes rang under the little hammers in her hands,
incessant, metallic, rising and falling with that strange melody.
Kasteliz had fixed his glowing eyes on her; Boleskey, nodding his head,
was staring at the floor; Margit, with a pale face, stood like a statue.

'What can they see in it?' thought Swithin; 'it's not a tune.' He took
up his hat. Rozsi saw him and stopped; her lips had parted with a
faintly dismayed expression. His sense of personal injury diminished; he
even felt a little sorry for her. She jumped up from her seat and
twirled round with a pout. An inspiration seized on Swithin. "Come and
dine with me," he said to Boleskey, "to-morrow--the Goldene Alp--bring
your friend." He felt the eyes of the whole room on him--the Hungarian's
fine eyes; Margit's wide glance; the narrow, hot gaze of Kasteliz; and
lastly--Rozsi's. A glow of satisfaction ran down his spine. When he
emerged into the street he thought gloomily, 'Now I've done it!' And not
for