"Because I am exceedingly angry, and I should quarrel with you. I am seriously vexed with you, not because you insist on marrying Fruzsinka—you can be angry with yourself for that—but because you are leaving that sweet, pretty, innocent child, to eat her heart out in disappointment. I do not want to have anything more to do with you; you are nothing to me. Now go, and take your grand friend with you!"
"Very well, I won't take anyone. I'll go alone and ask for her myself."
Thereupon, Ráby turned away and went. It would be indeed absurd that a man, in such a high position, who had been educated at the Theresianum, and was the trusted confidant of the Emperor himself, should let himself be dissuaded from his purpose by a simple unlearned rustic.
The contradiction only strengthened him in his determination.
And then—those glorious eyes!
Ráby was one of those men who, once having set themselves an end in view, pursue it unflinchingly. He went straight away to the prefect, stated plainly his errand, and asked for the hand of his niece.
The prefect, however, pushed his cap back a little off his brows, and demanded somewhat abruptly if his visitor understood Hungarian?
Ráby was a little disconcerted by the question.
"Yes, I can speak Hungarian," he answered shortly.