Swithin looked at them askance, and followed.  By a dim light they groped their way up some stairs into a large room, into which the moon was shining through a window bulging over the street.  A lamp burned low; there was a smell of spirits and tobacco, with a faint, peculiar scent, as of rose leaves.  In one corner stood a czymbal, in another a great pile of newspapers.  On the wall hung some old-fashioned pistols, and a rosary of yellow beads.  Everything was tidily arranged, but dusty.  Near an open fireplace was a table with the remains of a meal.  The ceiling, floor, and walls were all of dark wood.  In spite of the strange disharmony, the room had a sort of refinement.  The Hungarian took a bottle out of a cupboard and, filling some glasses, handed one to Swithin.  Swithin put it gingerly to his nose.  ’You never know your luck!  Come!’ he thought, tilting it slowly into his mouth.  It was thick, too sweet, but of a fine flavour.

“Brothers!” said the Hungarian, refilling, “your healths!”

The youth tossed off his wine.  And Swithin this time did the same; he pitied this poor devil of a youth now.  “Come round to-morrow!” he said, “I’ll give you a shirt or two.”  When the youth was gone, however, he remembered with relief that he had not given his address.

‘Better so,’ he reflected.  ‘A humbug, no doubt.’

“What was that you said to him?” he asked of the Hungarian.

“I said,” answered Boleskey, “’You have eaten and drunk; and now you are my enemy!’”

“Quite right!” said Swithin, “quite right!  A beggar is every man’s enemy.”

“You do not understand,” the Hungarian replied politely.  “While he was a beggar—­I, too, have had to beg” (Swithin thought, ’Good God! this is awful!’), “but now that he is no longer hungry, what is he but a German?  No Austrian dog soils my floors!”

His nostrils, as it seemed to Swithin, had distended in an unpleasant fashion; and a wholly unnecessary raucousness invaded his voice.  “I am an exile—­all of my blood are exiles.  Those Godless dogs!” Swithin hurriedly assented.

As he spoke, a face peeped in at the door.

“Rozsi!” said the Hungarian.  A young girl came in.  She was rather short, with a deliciously round figure and a thick plait of hair.  She smiled, and showed her even teeth; her little, bright, wide-set grey eyes glanced from one man to the other.  Her face was round, too, high in the cheekbones, the colour of wild roses, with brows that had a twist-up at the corners.  With a gesture of alarm, she put her hand to her cheek, and called, “Margit!” An older girl appeared, taller, with fine shoulders, large eyes, a pretty mouth, and what Swithin described to himself afterwards as a “pudding” nose.  Both girls, with little cooing sounds, began attending to their father’s face.

Swithin turned his back to them.  His arm pained him.

‘This is what comes of interfering,’ he thought sulkily; ’I might have had my neck broken!’ Suddenly a soft palm was placed in his, two eyes, half-fascinated, half-shy, looked at him; then a voice called, “Rozsi!” the door was slammed, he was alone again with the Hungarian, harassed by a sense of soft disturbance.