The girl moved off airily, shaking her sides flippantly as she went. Her golden ear-rings tinkled. Her hair was down again, no longer twisted round the comb, and the ribbon ends fluttered coquettishly behind her. "As thou to me. So I to thee."
The csikós sat quietly drinking his beer, and the girl sang on the verandah:
"Hadst thou known what I know,
Or whose sweetheart am I!
Not alone would I weep,
Thou wouldst cry."
At the fourth line the door was shut with a bang.
By the time she reappeared again, three empty broken-necked bottles stood on the table. Klári took them, picking up the broken bits of glass into her apron.
After the third bottle, the lad's humour had changed, and as the girl fussed round him, he suddenly slipped his arm round her waist.
She made no demur on her part.
"Well, may one call you 'Sándor' again?" she asked.
"You always could. What did you want to say?"
"Did you ask anything?"