"You had been courting her longer than anybody," rejoined Irma, who this time chose to ignore his taunt.
"And I would have won her sooner—on my own—even without your help, if it had not been for that accursed Andor."
"Well! he is dead now, anyway. All doubts, I suppose, are at rest on that point."
"There are a few fools still left in the village who maintain that he will turn up some day."
"We all hope he will, because of Lakatos Pál. The poor man is fretting himself into his grave, since he has realized that when he dies his money and land must all go to the Government."
"He can sell his land and distribute his money while he lives," retorted Béla; "but you won't catch him doing that—the old miser."
"Can't anything more be done?—about Andor, I mean."
"Of course not," he said impatiently; "everything that could be done has been done. It's no use going on having rows by post with the War Office about the proofs of a man's death who has been food for worms these past two years."
"Well! you know, Béla, people here are not satisfied about those proofs. I, for one, never held with those who would not believe in Andor's death; there are plenty of folk in the village—and Pater Bonifácius is one of them—who swear that he will come home one of these days—perhaps when Pali bácsi is dead. And then he would find himself the richest man in the Commune," she added, not without a point of malice, "richer even than you, my good Béla."
"Hold your tongue, you old fool!" broke in Béla savagely, as once more the sinister leer which hovered round his sightless eye was turned toward Elsa.