As we stepped into his room, he came to meet us, with more courtesy than pleasure apparent on his countenance. Some kind of displeasure strove to display itself thereon, but it was just as if he had studied the expression for hours in the mirror; it seemed to be an artificial, affected, calculated displeasure.
Mother straightway hastened to him, and taking both his hands, impetuously introduced the conversation with these words:
"Where is my son Lorand?"
My right honorable uncle shrugged his shoulders, and with gracious mien answered this mother's passionate outburst:
"My dear lady cousin, it is I who ought to urge that question; for it is my duty to prosecute your son. And if I answer that I do not know where he is, I think thereby I shall display the most kinsmanlike feeling."
"Why prosecute my son?" said mother, tremblingly. "Is it possible to eternally ruin anyone for a mere schoolboy escapade?"
"Not one but many 'schoolboy escapades' justify me in my action: it is not merely in my official capacity that I am bound to prosecute him."
As he said this, Bálnokházy fixed his eyes sharply upon me: I did not wince before him. I knew I had the right and the power to withstand his gaze. Soon my turn would come.
"What?" asked mother. "What reason could you have to prosecute him?"
Bálnokházy shrugged his shoulders more than ever, bitterly smiling.