"And what does the young man say to the prospect of a fireside of his own? and who is the chosen fair one?" asked Uncle Lorincz.
Menyhert crossed his legs and looked up to the ceiling, as he was wont to do when discussing matters of weight. "Well, the girl is no other than Carolina Berkessy, the only child of my worthy friend, Gabor Berkessy, pronotarius of the county of Csongrad; her father promised her to my eldest son, when she was still in the cradle."
"Well, all I can say is, she is a very fine girl," replied Uncle Lorincz; "a very fine family altogether, and not a thing to be rejected, if he gives his consent."
"Gives his consent!" cried Menyhert, not without some offence; "and why should he withhold his consent?"
"Why, only because my nephew is rather young—that's all," replied Uncle Lorincz.
"What of that?" said his father proudly; "he has sense enough: I will venture to say that in any company. He attained eminence in every department at school—But what the tartar smells so strong? You are singeing your coat, boy! I desired you not to lean against the stove."
Sandor lifted up one of the flaps of his coat, in which a large hole was already burned.
"Sit down, you ass!" said Menyhert to his accomplished son, who eyed the damage, as if considering how to get it washed out.
Uncle Lorincz, seeing that the conversation was taking rather an unparliamentary turn, endeavoured to revive the former subject. "And probably my nephew has passed his examination too?" he asked.
"And with great credit," replied his father, forgetting the burnt coat; "that severe G——, who puzzled all the young men, was an examiner. Tell us what he asked you, Sandor; come, say it off."