'You are a good actress,' he said simply. 'But you forget; it is Stefan whom you can deceive, not me.'
When she had vainly used all her resources of alternate entreaty and invective, of cajolery and insolence, she sank into her chair, exhausted, hysterical, nerveless.
'I am ill; call my woman,' she said faintly.
He replied:
'You are no more ill than I am.'
'You are brutal, Egon,' she said, raising herself, with flashing eyes and hissing tongue.
'What have you been to her?' said Vàsàrhely.
He waited with cold, inflexible patience. When another half-hour had gone by she signed the paper, and flung it with fury to him.
'You know very well it is true!' she cried, as she leaned across the table like a slender snake that darted. 'Would she lie dying of it if it were only a lie?'
'That I know not,' said Vàsàrhely, coldly. 'What I know is that your carriage will be ready in an hour, and that you will go hence. If ever you be tempted to speak of what has occurred here, you will remember that my silence to Stefan and your own people is only conditional on yours on another matter.'