“Ach, lieber Gott!” said Herr Schwarz, and walking away to the window, he stood looking into the rose-garden outside, making a curious whistling sound with his prominent lips, expressive, evidently, of extreme agitation.
Falloden lit another cigarette, and offered one to Miklos.
At the end of two or three minutes, Schwarz again amended the figures on the scrap of paper, and handed it sombrely to Falloden.
“Dat is my last word.”
Falloden glanced at it, and carelessly said—
“On that I will consult my father.”
He left the room.
Schwarz and Miklos looked at each other.
“What airs these English aristocrats give themselves,” said the Hungarian angrily—“even when they are beggars, like this young man!”
Schwarz stood frowning, his hands in his pockets, legs apart. His agitation was calming down, and his more prudent mind already half regretted his impetuosity.