of her. But I will say that the men
are sharp enough dangling round her skirts."

"Yes," retorted Irma, "and I wish to goodness Bela had not set his heart
on having her at the feast. He is so obstinate: once he has said a thing
. . ."

"Bela's conduct in this matter is not to be commended, my good Irma,"
said the neighbour sententiously; "everyone thinks that for a tokened
man it is a scandal to be always hanging round that pert Jewess. Why
didn't he propose to her instead of to Elsa, if he liked her so much
better?"

"Hush! hush! my good Mariska, please. Elsa might hear you."

The two women went on talking in whispers. Elsa had heard, of course,
what they said: and since she was alone a hot blush of shame mounted to
her cheeks. It was horrid of people to talk in that way about her future
husband, and she marvelled how her own mother could lend herself to such
gossip.

Irma came in a few minutes later. She looked suspiciously at her
daughter.

"Why do you keep the door open?" she asked sharply, "were you expecting
anybody to come in?"

"Only you, mother, and Pater Bonifacius is coming after vespers,"
replied the girl.

"I stopped outside for a bit of gossip with Mariska just now. Could you
hear what she said?"

"Yes, mother. I did hear something of what Mariska said."

"About Bela?"

"About him--yes."

"Hej, child! you must not take any notice of what folks say--it is only
tittle-tattle. You must not mind it."

"I don't mind it, mother. I am sure that it is only tittle-tattle."

"Your father in bed?" asked Irma abruptly changing the subject of
conversation.

"Yes."

"And you have been busying yourself, I see," continued the mother,
looking round her with obvious disapproval, "with matters that do not
concern you. I suppose Bela has been persuading you that your mother is
incapable of keeping her own house tidy, so you must needs teach her how
to do it."

"No, mother, nothing was further from my thoughts. I had nothing to do
after I had cleared and washed up, and I wanted something to do."

"If you wanted something to do you might have got out your father's
bunda" (big sheepskin cloak worn by the peasantry) "and seen if the moth
has got into it or not. It is two years since he has had it on, and he
will want it to-morrow."

"To-morrow?"

"Why, yes. I really must tell you because of the bunda, Janko and Moritz
and Jeno and Pal have offered to carry him to the feast in his chair
just as he is