"Not on the staircase?"
"Yes, indeed. On the staircase. She won't come in till she's quite sure you'll give her away. She's a bit shy."
I immediately hastened to open the door for my hesitating visitor.
It really was Bessy.
It was winter time just then, and she had all sorts of furry garments upon her, and a furred cap on her head; she looked just like a fair Muscovite.
There really seemed to be some sort of coquettish bashfulness in her face.
I couldn't imagine why. I had seen her face before under many similar circumstances, and after Muki Bagotay, Peter Gyuricza, and Tihamér Rengetegi, Wenceslaus Kvatopil was decidedly an improvement.
The bridegroom remained in the room while I admitted the lady. Then he first craved permission to kiss her hand, and then begged her pardon for kissing it. After that there was absolutely no getting him to take a seat, but he persisted in standing on one spot, leaning over the back of the arm-chair in which his lady sat.
"Have you grasped what my hero has told you?" inquired Bessy, when she had got over her first embarrassment. "Just fancy! he has given me his word as a gentleman that henceforth he'll never address a word to any Hungarian except in the Hungarian language. And he tortures his Hungarian orderly to death with it to begin with."
"A most laudable resolve," I was obliged to answer.