"He found something in the umbrella, did he not?" he asked, panting.
Mrs. Szliminszky shrugged her white shoulders, half visible through the lace insertion of her dress.
"Why, what could he find in an umbrella? It is not a box, nor an iron case. But for the last fourteen years people have come from great distances to be married under the umbrella, and they pay generously for it. And then when a rich person is dying anywhere beyond the Bjela Voda, from the Szitnya right as far as Kriván, they send for the priest of Glogova to hear their confession, and after their death, to bury them under the umbrella."
Veronica, to whom the mayor's wife had been showing the embroidered table-cloth, calling her attention to the fineness of the linen, now caught a few words of the conversation.
"Are you speaking of our umbrella?" she asked amiably, leaning toward them.
Gyuri and Mrs. Szliminszky started.
"Yes, my dear," answered the latter, slightly confused.
Gyuri smiled mischievously.
"I see," said Veronica, "you don't believe the story."
"No, I do not."