“Mother’s housekeeper has been talking to them this afternoon, probably to inform them that you have left. She had scarcely returned when the car pulled up before our door and the men asked for you. They wanted to come up to our flat. They insisted, affirming that they came from the police, and had to see you personally. The concièrge told them that you had left town and banged the door in their faces. The car, however, remained where it was and kept the house under observation. The men only left at dawn, hoping to see you return.” While he told me all this I had a feeling as though an ugly hand were groping for me in the dark, trying to get hold of me, but missing me, passing beside me. It was the hand of Lenin. My brother said, following up his own thoughts: “You cannot remain with the Zsigmondys. It is impossible for you to go home. They informed the concierge that they would come and fetch you to-day.” [Illustration: “... LENIN SPEAKING.” ] My mother’s face appeared before me, a haunted expression in her blue eyes. It would be terrible for her to see me arrested. What was I to do? I had sent a message to Count Stephen Bethlen this morning, but he had already left home. Everybody for whom I send has disappeared. The threads are broken. How shall I start? Left to themselves, what can women do at a time like this? I had not noticed that the Secretary of the Women’s Union had entered. He told me that in a few days it would be impossible to travel without a permit and advised me to leave town while it was still possible. The Kállays had been prevented by the crowds at the station from leaving by train to-day, but would start to-morrow, and invited me to go with them. I hesitated; but, after all, it was only a question of a few days. So as soon as I was alone I wrote to my mother and told her I should leave next day, though I did not yet know my destination, and asked her to spend the evening with me. Hours have never passed so slowly. When it was quite dark I escaped from the house. A cold wind blew through the empty streets. The tired town had once more resigned itself to its fate and now suffered in silence; the posters alone spoke; huge sheets covered the walls. The same words everywhere: Proletariat ... Dictatorship ... Proletariat.... The broken street lamps had not been repaired, and the pavement was covered with refuse: for days the streets have not been swept. The staircase was in darkness. A single lamp was burning in my sister’s sitting-room. And there, in the dim light, I saw my mother again. I was shocked by her appearance: she seemed to have become shorter since we had parted and her face was much thinner. Did she fret for me? Was I the cause of this change? Never in my life did I feel so moved in her presence as then.