mps were flickering beneath the trees
like a swarm of fireflies. There was a hum as from a gigantic beehive.
Passers-by lifted their faces, then vanished into the crowd; Rozsi stood
gazing at them spellbound, as if their very going and coming were a
delight.

The space was soon full of whirling couples. Rozsi's head began to beat
time. "O Margit!" she whispered.

Swithin's face had assumed a solemn, uneasy expression. A man raising
his hat, offered his arm to Margit. She glanced back across her shoulder
to reassure Swithin. "It is a friend," she said.

Swithin looked at Rozsi--her eyes were bright, her lips tremulous.
He slipped his hand along the table and touched her fingers. Then she
flashed a look at him--appeal, reproach, tenderness, all were expressed
in it. Was she expecting him to dance? Did she want to mix with the
rift-raff there; wish him to make an exhibition of himself in this
hurly-burly? A voice said, "Good-evening!" Before them stood Kasteliz,
in a dark coat tightly buttoned at the waist.

"You are not dancing, Rozsi Kozsanony?" (Miss Rozsi). "Let me, then,
have the pleasure." He held out his arm. Swithin stared in front of
him. In the very act of going she gave him a look that said as plain as
words: "Will you not?" But for answer he turned his eyes away, and when
he looked again she was gone. He paid the score and made his way into
the crowd. But as he went she danced by close to him, all flushed and
panting. She hung back as if to stop him, and he caught the glistening
of tears. Then he lost sight of her again. To be deserted the first
minute he was alone with her, and for that jackanapes with the small
head and the volcanic glances! It was too much! And suddenly it occurred
to him that she was alone with Kasteliz--alone at night, and far from
home. 'Well,' he thought, 'what do I care?' and shouldered his way on
through the crowd. It served him right for mixing with such people here.
He left the fair, but the further he went, the more he nursed his rage,
the more heinous seemed her offence, the sharper grew his jealousy. "A
beggarly baron!" was his thought.

A figure came alongside--it was Boleskey. One look showed Swithin his
condition. Drunk again! This was the last straw!

Unfortunately Boleskey had recognised him. He seemed violently excited.
"Where--where are my daughters?" he began.

Swithin brushed past, but Boleskey caught his arm. "Listen--brother!" he
said; "news of my country! After