“Everybody is just the same as ever,” she reflected. “Perhaps the war news is not true after all.” Suddenly all this was forgotten. Her father just mentioned that the children would take dancing lessons every Sunday afternoon in Geramb’s educational institute.
“It is a smart place,” said John Hubert. “Baron Szepesy’s young ladies go there and Bajmoczy the Septemvir’s daughters.” He pronounced the name “Bajmoczy” slowly, respectfully, and looked round to see the effect it produced on his audience.
Next Sunday, Anne thought of nothing but the dancing school, even when she was at Mass. She stood up, knelt down, but it meant nothing to her. She traced with her finger the engraved inscription on the pew: “Ulwing family.” And they alone were allowed to sit in this pew though it was nearest the altar.
Gál, the wine merchant, stood there under the pulpit, and Mr. Walter the wholesale linen merchant of Idol Street had no pew. Even the Hosszu family sat further back than they, though they owned water mills and the millers of the Danube bowed to them.
Anne classified the inhabitants of the parish according to their pews. During the exhibition of the Host, while she smote her chest with her little fist, she decided that her grandfather ranked before everybody else.
All this time, Christopher Ulwing inclined his head and prayed devoutedly.
When Anne looked up again, she saw something queer. Though turning towards the altar, little Christopher was looking sideways. She followed his eyes; her glance fell on Sophie Hosszu. Sophie leaned her forehead on her clasped hands. Only the lovely outline of her face was visible. Over her half-closed eyes her long black eyelashes lay in the shade.... Christopher, however, now sat stiffly, with downcast eyes, in the pew. Anne could scarcely refrain from laughing.
Later the hours seemed to get longer and longer and it appeared as if that afternoon would never come to an end. The children became fidgety. The maid brought some leather shoes from the wardrobe; Anne addressed her reproachfully:
“Oh, Netti, don’t you know? To-day I am to wear my new prunella boots!”
Her apple-green cashmere frock was hanging from the window bolts. The black velvet coat was spread on the piano. Since last year Anne had occupied her mother’s former room. The nursery had become the boy’s sole property. Christopher too was standing in front of the mirror. He was parting his fair, white-glimmering hair on one side; it was so soft it looked as if the wind had blown it sideways. He was pleased with himself and while he bent his soft shirt collar over his shoulders he started whistling. He never forgot a melody he had once heard. He whistled as sweetly as a bird.