"Thank you," said the man, "not now. Later perhaps."
The girl responded by a clicking noise with her tongue, and then sat down near him, at the end of the long bench.
The csikós raised the bottle to his lips, drained it dry, and flung it on the floor, where it smashed into a thousand fragments.
"Why have you broken the bottle?" she asked softly.
"That no one else may drink out of it." Next he tossed three ten kreuzer notes on the table—"dog tongues" the country people call them—two being for the red wine, one for the bottle. The girl meanwhile had seized a broom, and was diligently sweeping up the broken glass. Then, knowing the rule, she dived behind the wooden lattice railing off the bar, and brought out a fresh bottle. How she longed to look in his eyes! But he, evidently guessing it, pulled his hat lower over his face than before. Finally, she did manage to get possession of his cap, and then tried to transfer the yellow rose in her hair to the silk ribbon decorating its brim. But the herdsman saw, and snatched it out of her hands.
"Keep your roses for some worthier person," he said shortly.
"Sándor," began the girl at last, "do you wish to make me cry?"
"That would be false, as your words are false. Did not Ferko Lacza leave you this morning with one of your roses in his cap?"
She did not turn red at this, only so much the paler.
"God knows I——"