rics. In fact, none of the young girls wanted to marry him.
What they looked for was romance, not money. Perhaps some old maid would
have jumped at his offer, but between the young maids and the old maids
there is a great difference--they belong to two different worlds. The
young girls were told that Pal Gregorics spat blood, and of course, the
moment they heard that, they would have nothing more to do with him, so
that at his next visit their hearts would beat loudly, but not in the
same way they had done last time he drove up in his coach and four. Poor
Gregorics! What a pity! The horses outside may paw the ground, and toss
their manes as much as they like, what difference does it make? Pal
Gregorics spits blood! Oh, you silly little Marys and Carolines. Of
course Pal Gregorics is an ugly, sickly man, but think how rich he is;
and after all, he only spits his own blood. So what can it matter to
you?

Believe me, Rosalia, who is ten years older than you, would not be such
a silly little goose, if she had your chances, for she is a philosopher,
and if she were to be told that Pal Gregorics spits blood she would only
think to herself, "What an interesting man!" And aloud she would say, "I
will nurse him." And deep down in her mind where she keeps the ideas
that cannot be put into words, which, in fact, are hardly even thoughts
as yet, she would find these words, "If Gregorics spits blood already,
he won't last so very long."

You silly little girls, you know nothing of life as yet; your mothers
have put you into long dresses, but your minds have not grown in
proportion. Don't be angry with me for speaking so plainly, but it is my
duty to show my readers why Pal Gregorics did not find a wife among you.
The reason is a simple one. The open rose is not perfectly pure; bees
have bathed in its chalice, insects have slept in it. But in the heart
of an opening bud, not a speck of dust is to be found.

That is why Pal Gregorics was refused by so many young girls, and by
degrees he began to see that they were right (for, as I said before, he
was a good, simple man), marriage was not for him, as he spat blood; for
after all, blood is one of the necessaries of life. When he had once
made up his mind not to marry, he troubled his head no more about the
girls, but turned his attention to the young married women. He had
beautiful bouquets sent from Vienna for Mrs. Vozary, and one fine
evening he let five hundred nightingales loose i