Clemence Szepesy nodded and pinched her sharp nose. Anne paid no attention to this. She looked at her father in surprise. He stood beside Sophie Hosszu, leaning against the high, white panel of the door. While he talked, he kept one of his hands stuck in his waistcoat, which was adorned with many tiny flowers. With the other he now and then smoothed his thick fair hair back from his brow which it bordered in a graceful curve. He smiled. Until now Anne had never noticed that her father was still a young man.
The dancing lesson was over. Walking down the poorly lit staircase, she heard more talk behind her. Just where the curving staircase turned, she was hidden from those coming from above.
“Her grandfather was an ordinary carpenter,” said Clemence Szepesy.
“Par exemple, what is that, a carpenter?”
“It’s the sort of fellow,” came the voice from above, “who worked last spring on the beams of our attics.”
“Really such people ought not to be admitted into gentlefolks’ society.” It was Bertha’s voice.
At first, Anne did not realise whom they were discussing—only later. How dared they speak like that of her grandfather! Of Ulwing, the master builder! Of him who sat in the first pew in church and before whom even the aldermen stood bare-headed!
She turned round sharply. Those behind found themselves suddenly face to face with her. They slunk away to the balustrade. Anne gazed at them bewildered, then her countenance became sad and scared. She had just discovered something vile and dangerous that had been hitherto concealed from her by those she loved. She was taught for the first time in her short life that people could be wicked; she had always thought that everybody was kind. Her soul had till then gone out with open arms to all human beings without discrimination; now it felt itself rebuffed.
On the drive home she sat silently in the coach. Her father spoke of the Septemvir Bajmoczy and his family. He pronounced the name respectfully, with unction. This irritated Anne at first. But her father’s and her brother’s content pained her only for an instant. She set her teeth and decided that she would not tell them what had happened on the staircase. She felt sorry for them, more so than for herself, and for the sake of their happiness and peace of mind she charitably burdened her maiden soul with the heavy weight of her first secret.