Wladin handed over his glass of water.
"You may drink a little of it, but not too much. Stop, stop, that will do!"
Poor Wladin! He was a martyr to conjugal love! For sixteen years he had suffered under this constant thoughtfulness, and though he was a strong man when he married, and had never been ill since, yet every minute of his life he expected some catastrophe; for, through constant warnings, the unfortunate Pole had worked himself up to the belief that a current of air or a drop of water could be disastrous to him. He felt that Nature had bad intentions toward him.
"Take care, Wladin, or the dog will bite your foot!"
One of the watch-dogs was under the table gnawing at a bone he had possessed himself of, and a little farther off the cat was looking on, longingly, as much as to say: "Give me some of that superfluous food."
Now began the so-called "amabilis confusio." Every one spoke at once, and every one about a different subject. The Senators had returned to the important question of the corpse hanging in the wood; Mrs. Mravucsán complained that no one was eating anything, and looked as wretched as she could.
Each one drank to the other's health, and during the quiet moment that followed, a voice was heard:
"Oh, Wladin, Wladin!"
It was Mrs. Szliminszky's voice; she evidently objected to her husband drinking, and her neighbor, Mr. Mokry, the lawyer's clerk, objected to her constant distractions, in spite of the interesting theme they were discussing.
"That strong cigar will harm you, Wladin; you had better put it down. Well, and why did you go to Besztercebánya, Mr. Mokry?"