"And see how far away I thought of those last words, since I have brought you a present. It is in my cloak sleeve yonder, go and fetch it out."
Many things were in that sleeve—steel, flint, and tinder, tobacco pouch, money bag, and among it all the girl discovered a new packet, done up in silver paper. When it was unfolded, and she beheld a comb of yellow tortoise-shell, her face beamed with happiness.
"This is for me?"
"Whom else?"
Now when a peasant maid twists her plait of hair round a comb, it means she is betrothed, has a lover of her own, and is "ours" no longer. Nor can she any more sing the song about "I know not whose darling am I."
Standing before the mirror, Klári "did up" her hair in a knot round the comb, and then she looked prettier than ever.
"Now you shall kiss me," she said. She offered the kiss herself in fact, stretching out her arms, but the man held her back.
"Not yet," he said, "I will be hot presently, but I am still shivering."
It was a rebuff, and the girl drew her brows together, for she felt shamed, and besides something burned in her heart. However, she only tried harder to be loving and gentle, love and anger meanwhile striving madly together in her heart—anger just because of the love.
"Shall I sing your favourite song," she asked, "while the fish is roasting?"