the
sitting-room to regain his self-control.

The sight of Boleskey with a bottle in his hand steadied him.

"She is coming," he said. And very soon she did come, her thick hair
roughly twisted in a plait.

Swithin sat between the girls; but did not talk, for he was really
hungry. Boleskey too was silent, plunged in gloom; Rozsi was dumb;
Margit alone chattered.

"You will come to our Father-town? We shall have things to show you.
Rozsi, what things we will show him!" Rozsi, with a little appealing
movement of her hands, repeated, "What things we will show you!" She
seemed suddenly to find her voice, and with glowing cheeks, mouths full,
and eyes bright as squirrels', they chattered reminiscences of the "dear
Father-town," of "dear friends," of the "dear home."

'A poor place!' Swithin could not help thinking. This enthusiasm seemed
to him common; but he was careful to assume a look of interest, feeding
on the glances flashed at him from Rozsi's restless eyes.

As the wine waned Boleskey grew more and more gloomy, but now and then
a sort of gleaming flicker passed over his face. He rose to his feet at
last.

"Let us not forget," he said, "that we go perhaps to ruin, to death; in
the face of all this we go, because our country needs--in this there is
no credit, neither to me nor to you, my daughters; but for this noble
Englishman, what shall we say? Give thanks to God for a great heart.
He comes--not for country, not for fame, not for money, but to help the
weak and the oppressed. Let us drink, then, to him; let us drink again
and again to heroic Forsyte!" In the midst of the dead silence, Swithin
caught the look of suppliant mockery in Rozsi's eyes. He glanced at the
Hungarian. Was he laughing at him? But Boleskey, after drinking up his
wine, had sunk again into his seat; and there suddenly, to the surprise
of all, he began to snore. Margit rose and, bending over him like a
mother, murmured: "He is tired--it is the ride!" She raised him in her
strong arms, and leaning on her shoulder Boleskey staggered from the
room. Swithin and Rozsi were left alone. He slid his hand towards her
hand that lay so close, on the rough table-cloth. It seemed to await
his touch. Something gave way in him, and words came welling up; for the
moment he forgot himself, forgot everything but that he was near her.
Her head dropped on his shoulder, he breathed the perfume of her hair.
"Good-night!" she whispered, and the whisper was like