it out in order to mend it, that I found the
letter which you wrote me from Fiume. It had slipped between the pocket
and the lining and . . ."

"And are you happy, Elsa?" he broke in abruptly.

She hesitated almost imperceptibly for a moment, then she said quietly:

"Yes, Andor. I am fairly happy."

"Bela?" he asked again. "Is he fond of you?"

"I think so."

"You are not sure?"

"Oh, yes!" she said more firmly, "I am quite sure."

"He hasn't taken to drinking, has he? . . . He was a little inclined
that way at one time."

"Oh!" she said, with a shrug of her shoulders, "I don't think that he
drinks more than other fellows of his age."

She went over to the window and somewhat ostentatiously, he thought,
began turning over the contents of her work-box. There was something in
her attitude now which worried him, and she seemed more determined than
ever not to look him straight in the face.

"Elsa! I shall think the worst if you tell me nothing," he said firmly.

"There is nothing to tell, Andor."

"Yes, there is," he persisted; "there is something about Bela which
makes you unhappy and which you won't tell me. . . . Now, listen to me,
Elsa, for I mean every word which I am going to say . . . I can bring
myself to the point of seeing you married to another man and happy in
your new home, even though my own heart will break in the process . . .
but what I could never stand would be to see you married to another man
and made unhappy by him. . . . So if you won't tell me what is on your
mind with regard to Bela, I will pick a quarrel with him this afternoon,
and kill him if I can."

"Don't talk so wildly, Andor," she said, as she turned and faced him,
for she was a little frightened at his earnestness and knew that he had
it in him to act just as he said he would. "The whole thing is only
foolishness on my part, I know."

"Then there is something?" he persisted obstinately.

"Well!" she said, after a little more hesitation, "it's only that he
will go hanging about at the Goldsteins' all the time."

"Oh! it's Klara, is it?"

"I can't bear that girl," said Elsa, with sudden vehemence.

He looked at her keenly.

"You are jealous, Elsa," he said. "Is it because you love Bela?"

"I don't like his hanging round Klara," she replied evasively.

He rose from the table, drawing in his breath as he did so, with a
curious hissing sound; perhaps the pain which he felt now was harder to
bear even than that caused