He paused, and looked more keenly at the girl.
"What is it, Klara?" he asked; "you seem ill or upset . . ."
She closed her eyes once or twice like someone just waking out of a dream, then she passed her hands over her forehead and over her hair. She felt completely dazed and stupid, as if she had received a stunning blow on the head, and while Andor talked she looked at him with staring eyes, not understanding a word that he said.
"Yes—yes, Andor?" she said vaguely. "What can I do for you?"
"Nothing much, my good Klara," he replied; "it was only about Béla . . ."
"Yes—about Béla," she stammered; "won't . . . won't you sit down?"
"Thank you, I will for a moment."
She moved forward in order to get him a chair, but she found that she could not stand. The moment that she relinquished the prop of the wall, her knees gave way under her and she lurched forward against the table. She would have fallen had not Andor caught her and guided her to a chair, whereon she sank half fainting, with eyes closed and cheeks and lips the colour of ashes.
Just for the moment the wild thought flew through his mind that she had been induced to drink by one of the men, but a closer look on her wan, pale face and into those dilated eyes of hers convinced him that the girl was in real and acute mental distress.
He went up to the table and poured out a mug of wine, which he held to her lips. She drank eagerly, looking up at him the while with a strangely pathetic, eagerly appealing gaze.