The autumn days passed very pleasantly. Living so much in Paris, as he had done of late, the Baron, apparently, had but few friends in Budapest. He, however, had much business to attend to in the daytime on behalf of his Government, hence Falconer and the Baron’s pretty niece were thrown constantly into each other’s society.
She was a smart girl, full of a keen sense of humour, and possessing all the verve of the true Parisienne. She knew Budapest, of course, and acted as Geoffrey’s guide in the city, but her heart was always in Paris. She regarded the Hungarians as an uncouth race.
Her mother had been French, she told him one day. She had, alas! died two years ago. But she had induced her father to take the flat in Paris rather than remain in the wilds of Hungary.
More than once Falconer wrote to Sylvia telling her of the society junketings in Budapest, while the city starved. Each night they dined expensively and went either to the opera, or to the Vigszinhas to see comedy; to the Fortress, or the People’s Theatre. They also went to the Arena in the Town Park, the performances at which were quite as good as in pre-war days.
One evening as Geoffrey sat in the palm court of the Ritz with Françoise, she exclaimed suddenly in French: “I think we go to-morrow or the next day. My uncle was with Count Halmi this afternoon, and they were speaking of it. All the wireless apparatus has arrived at Zenta.”
“Zenta? Where is that?” asked Geoffrey, removing his cigarette, for the pair were alone together in a corner of the lounge. Françoise looked very pretty in a jade-coloured dance frock, for a dance to weird Tsigane music was to commence in the great ballroom in half an hour.
“Zenta! Why, don’t you know? Has not the Baron told you? It is his estate right away on the other side of Hungary—near the Russian frontier. I confess that it is out of the world, and I do hope you will not be bored to death there!”
“No doubt I shall not; I have my work to do,” laughed the well-set-up young Englishman, for he was really having a most enjoyable time.
Hence he was not surprised when two days later his host, the Baron, departed for the Schloss Zenta.
In the express between Budapest and Debrechen, on the line which leads out to the Polish frontier, the Baron, lolling lazily in the corner of the first-class compartment, remarked in English: