When, however, Vamhidy proposed that Coloman should now come back to Pest and be reconciled to his relations, the youth hesitated: "We will see," said he.
"At any rate remain here with me then," continued Szilard. "Sleep in my room and take till to-morrow to think it over. I won't lock the door but you must give me your word of honour that you will not go out of that door without my knowledge."
"I give you my word upon it."
Then Szilard made the youth lie down and only went to rest himself when he was sure that Coloman was asleep.
Nevertheless on awaking next morning and looking round the room he could see no trace of Coloman, but there was a letter from him on the table as follows: "Dear old friend, I thank you for your extreme kindness to me, but I don't want to see my relations any more, not because I fear to meet them, but because I have a holy horror of the very atmosphere they breathe. My confession will suffice to rectify my fault. I am going on the tramp again. The linen tent is my home. And then—there are obligations in respect to the discharge whereof I am not my sister's brother. I have taken nothing with me but four cigar ends from the table, a liberty I hope you will pardon me. As I have given you my word that I would not go out of the door without your knowledge, I have been obliged to make my exit through the window. Adieu! Till death thy faithful admirer. COLOMAN."
A couple of hours later Vamhidy learnt from the innkeeper that the manager, without any previous leave-taking, had decamped leaving behind him his decorations and theatrical wardrobe as some compensation for his trifling debts. All he had taken away with him was what he actually had on his person—and Miss Palmira.
And now Szilard understood the meaning of the passage "there are obligations in respect to the discharge whereof I am not my sister's brother."
This vagabond comedian had an equally vagabond childish ideal, and when he had to make his choice, he flung his arm around her and fled away with her—into the wide, wide world.