He turned to go, and already his hand was on the latch of the door when an involuntary cry, like a desperate appeal, escaped her lips.
"Andor!"
"What is it?" he said, speaking over his shoulder.
He didn't like the girl: she had been offensive and insolent to Elsa, the cause of Elsa's tears; but just now, when he turned back in answer to that piteous call from her, she looked so forlorn, so pathetic, so terrified that all the kindliness and chivalry which are inherent in the true Magyar peasant rose up in his heart to plead on her behalf.
"You were quite right just now, Andor," she murmured. "I am in trouble—in grave, terrible trouble. . . ."
"Is there anything I can do to help you?" he asked. "No, no, don't get up," he added hurriedly, for she had tried to rise and obviously was still unable to stand, "just stay where you are, and I'll come and sit near you. Is there anything I can do to help you?"
"Yes!" she whispered under her breath.
"What is it?"
"I don't know what you'll think of me."
"Never mind what I think," he said, a little impatiently; "if there's anything I can do to help you in your trouble I'll do it, but of course I can do nothing unless you tell me all about it."