“This is no place for you,” growled Swithin, “I'm going to see you home.”
“Oh!” cried Rozsi; “but papa and—Margit!”
“That's their look-out!” and he hurried her away.
She slid her hand under his arm; the soft curves of her form brushed him gently, each touch only augmented his ill-humour. He burned with a perverse rage, as if all the passions in him were simmering and ready to boil over; it was as if a poison were trying to work its way out of him, through the layers of his stolid flesh. He maintained a dogged silence; Rozsi, too, said nothing, but when they reached the door, she drew her hand away.
“You are angry!” she said.
“Angry,” muttered Swithin; “no! How d'you make that out?” He had a torturing desire to kiss her.
“Yes, you are angry,” she repeated; “I wait here for papa and Margit.”
Swithin also waited, wedged against the wall. Once or twice, for his sight was sharp, he saw her steal a look at him, a beseeching look, and hardened his heart with a kind of pleasure. After five minutes Boleskey, Margit, and Kasteliz appeared. Seeing Rozsi they broke into exclamations of relief, and Kasteliz, with a glance at Swithin, put his lips to her hand. Rozsi's look said, “Wouldn't you like to do that?” Swithin turned short on his heel, and walked away.