The bookbinder himself scratched his head and muttered:  “This Saul is a man of letters; his style is vigorous!  Who would have thought it?”

The correspondence between Gutel and Mendel, or rather between Kalimann and Saul, flourished for some time.  If Kalimann addressed Mendel as “my cherished friend,” “my turtle dove,” Saul on his side would intersperse throughout his letters such expressions as “your gazelle-like eyes,” “your fairy form,” “your crimson lips,” “your voice rivalling the music of the celestial spheres.”

Kalimann’s “friendly” letter was followed by those of the tender and touching variety, and finally Gutel decided upon sacrificing her half florin and sending one that “would go straight to the heart.”  To make assurance doubly sure she supplemented her silver piece by a bottle of wine.  Her amanuensis poured out a glass, emptied it at a draught, smacked his lips, and began to write.  Suddenly, however, he stopped, and turning to the girl, said:  “Do you know, Gutel, that wine of yours was a happy inspiration, but the great poet Hafiz was not alone inspired by the spirit of wine, he placed a great virtue upon the crimson lips of pretty girls.”

Gutel was not slow to understand.

“As I have given you a half florin and a bottle of wine,” she said, in a shamefaced way, wiping her mouth with the corner of her apron the while, “I see no reason why I should not add a touch of my lips as well.”  So saying she gave the happy bookbinder a hearty kiss.  The consequence of all this was that the pen flew over the paper, and when Kalimann read the letter for Gutel’s approval the tender-hearted girl burst into tears of emotion.

As for Mendel, when Saul read him this letter going “straight to the heart,” he could contain himself no longer; rushing from the house he flew to the factory where he worked, and asked his employer, Mr. Schonberg, to permit him to quit his service.

“What is the matter with you?” cried Schonberg.  “Why do you wish to leave?  Do you want more wages?”

“No, no, Mr. Schonberg, that is not the reason.  But—­but I can stay no longer here at Gyongos, I must go to Hort.”

“To Hort?  What is the reason of that?”

For reply the dazed fellow held out the letter for him to read.  Schonberg glanced over it, and smiled.  “This Kalimann,” he murmured, “is a deuce of a fellow.  The world has lost a novelist in him.  But let me see how I can arrange matters.  Mendel,” he continued, turning to the open-mouthed lover, “you shall stay here, and you shall marry your Gutel.  I will give you two or three rooms in the factory for your housekeeping, and Mrs. Barkany will give the girl her trousseau.  How does that strike you?”

Mendel beamed.  He would have thrown himself on his employer’s neck, but resisted the impulse, and, instead, brushed the back of his hand across his eyes.  Schonberg gave him a day’s holiday, and the happy fellow lost no time in making his way to Hort, and subsequently into the arms of his inamorata.  Mrs. Barkany gave Gutel the trousseau, and the marriage took place at harvest-time.