He was engaged in framing a dignified speech to Mr. Wilder--thanking him for his generosity, but declining to accept a reward for what had been merely a matter of duty--when his reflections were cut short by the sound of footsteps on the stairs. They were by no means noiseless footsteps; there were good strong nails all over the bottom of Constance's shoes. The next moment she appeared in the doorway. Her eyes were centred on the view; she looked entirely over Tony. It was not until he rose to his feet that she realized his presence with a start. 'Dear me, is that you, Tony? You frightened me! Don't get up; I know you must be tired.' This with a sweetly solicitous smile. Tony smiled too and resumed his seat; it was the first time since morning that she had condescended to consider his feelings. She sauntered over to the opposite side and stood with her back to him examining the view. Tony turned his back and affected to be engaged with the view in the other direction; he too could play at indifference. Constance finished with her view first, and crossing over, she seated herself in the deep embrasure of a window close beside Tony's parapet. He rose again at her approach, but there was no eagerness in the motion; it was merely the necessary deference of a donkey-driver toward his employer. 'Oh, sit down,' she insisted, 'I want to talk to you.' He opened his eyes with a show of surprise; his hurt feelings insisted that all the advances should be on her part. Constance seemed in no hurry to begin; she removed her hat, pushed back her hair, and sat playing with the bunch of edelweiss which was stuck in among the roses--flattening the petals, rearranging the flowers with careful fingers; a touch, it seemed to Tony's suddenly clamouring senses, that was almost a caress. Then she looked up quickly and caught his gaze. She leaned forward with a laugh. 'Tony,' she said, 'do you spik any language besides Angleesh?' He triumphantly concealed all sign of emotion. '_Si_, signorina, I spik my own language.' 'Would you mind my asking what that language is?' He indulged in a moment's deliberation. Italian was clearly out of the question, and French she doubtless knew better than he--he deplored this polyglot education girls were receiving nowadays. He had it! He would be Hungarian. His sole fellow guest in the hotel at Verona the week before had been a Hungarian nobleman, who had informed him that the Magyar language was one of the most difficult on the face of the globe. There was at least little likelihood that she was acquainted with that. 'My own language, signorina, is Magyar.' 'Magyar?' She was clearly taken by surprise. '_Si_, signorina, I am Hungarian; I was born in Budapest.' He met her wide-opened eyes with a look of innocent candour.