"I don't know what you mean," she said simply.
"I mean that the noted beauty of Marosfalva does me the honour of being jealous. Isn't that it, now? Oh! I know well enough, you needn't be ashamed of it, jealousy does your love for me credit, and flatters me, I assure you."
"I don't know what you mean, Béla," she reiterated more firmly. "I am neither jealous nor ashamed."
"Not ashamed?" he jeered. "Oho! look at your flaming cheeks! Irma néni, haven't you a mirror? Let her see how she is blushing."
"I don't see why she should be jealous," interposed Irma crossly, "nor why you should be for ever teasing her. I am sure she has no cause to be ashamed of anything, or of being jealous of anyone."
"But I tell you that she is jealous of Klara Goldstein!" he maintained.
"What nonsense!" protested the mother, while the blush quickly fled from the young girl's cheeks, leaving them clear and bloodless.
"I tell you she is," he persisted, with wrathful doggedness; "she has been sullen and moody these last two days, ever since I insisted that Klara Goldstein shall be asked to-morrow to the farewell banquet and the dance."
"Well, I didn't see myself why you wanted that Jewess to come," said Irma dryly.
"That's nobody's business," he retorted. "I pay for the entertainment, don't I?"