It was then that my ill-humour got the better of me.
"Sir," said I, laying my hand on his shoulder, "put down that portrait! I did not paint it for you."
How scornfully he looked at me over his shoulder! "You would needs try conclusions with me—you, a mere poet!"
And he flung himself upon me with the pious resolve of forcing me out of Bessy's boudoir into the ante-chamber. When he saw that I resisted, he threw both his arms round my body. I also hugged him, and to work we went straightway.
Muki was furious because I would not allow my frame to be smashed so easily. Bessy began shrieking, and took refuge in the bow window. Suddenly I rallied all my strength and pitched Muki on to the sofa with such violence that the back of it cracked and came off.
"I also am a Peter Gyuricza!" I cried.
I would not have exchanged that triumph for all the glory in the world.
At the noise of this great scuffle, the mother and the aunt rushed into the room, and great was their indignation when they saw me kneeling on Muki's breast.
"Let me get up, fellow!" said my antagonist.
All that I wanted to do was to take the portrait from the hands of its unlawful possessor. Meanwhile the poor portrait had got terribly mauled. During the struggle it had fallen to the ground, and the pair of us had left the impression of our heels upon it. Bessy burst into tears when she saw the wreckage of her own portrait, but her mother lamented over the broken sofa.