The Circassian girl tossed her head and turned a defiant look upon Ödön; but no sooner did she meet his eye than she blushed in spite of herself—perhaps for the first time since the slave-dealer at Yekaterinograd had severed her girdle.
"Come, let us drink, my children," cried Leonin, striking off the head of one of the champagne bottles. Filling three glasses, he handed one to Ödön and one to Jéza; and when they had half emptied them he exchanged and refilled them.
"Drink to the bottom this time," he said. "That is right. Now you have drunk love to each other."
The wine loosed the girl's tongue and she began to chatter in the liveliest fashion. From the hall the notes of the orchestra reached them, and she sang an accompaniment. Ödön sat with his back against the grating and did not once turn around to see any of the pieces that were being presented. Leonin, on the other hand, looked through the grating at every new number and indulged in various random comments.
"Well, Jéza," he asked at length, "haven't you any number to-night?"
"No, I am having a holiday," she replied.
"But couldn't you oblige my friend by giving one of your productions?"
Jéza sat upright and stole a look at Ödön. "If he wishes it," she answered.
"What shall I ask for?" asked Ödön, turning to Leonin.
"Oh, I forgot," replied the latter; "you didn't know that Jéza was an artiste, and above all things unexcelled as a rider. Her number is always given the place of honour,—at the end of the programme. Choose any of her rôles."