"We shall be very thankful if you will take us in your carriage," she said, smiling, as she was sure Blanche Montmorency would have done under the same conditions.
Gyuri received the announcement with delight.
"I will go and see after the carriage," he said, taking up his hat. But Mravucsán stood in his way.
"Oh, no, you don't," he said. "Pro primo, even if Veronica can go, I am sure Madame Krisbay cannot start yet; it would be a sin to make her drive now; she must rest a bit first, after her fright and her bruises. If my wife puts some of her wonderful plaster on it to-night, she'll be perfectly well in the morning. Pro secundo, you can't go because I won't allow you to. Pro tertio, because it is getting dark. Please look out of the window."
He was right; the sun had disappeared behind the dark blue lines of the Zólyom Hills, and the fir-trees in front of the Town Hall cast their long shadows down the road, right up to the Mravucsán garden, where a lean cat was performing its evening ablutions among the oleanders. All the same Gyuri began to plead (it was part of his business).
"It will be a quiet, warm night," he said. "Why should we not start? After all it can make no difference to madame whether she groans in bed or in the carriage."
"But it will be dark," objected Mravucsán, "and there are some very bad bits of road between here and Glogova, and two or three precipices. In spite of my being mayor, I cannot order moonlight for you."
"We don't need it; we can light the lamps."
Veronica seemed undecided, and glanced from one to the other of the gentlemen, till at length Mravucsán put in the finishing touch.
"There will be a storm to-night, for there is the dead body of a man hanging on a tree in the wood you have to pass through."