She clung to him, and a fever went stealing through his veins; he butted forward at the crowd, holding her tight. When they were outside he let her go. “I was afraid,” she said. “Afraid!” muttered Swithin; “I should think so.” No longer touching her, he felt his grievance revive. “But you are so strong,” she murmured. “This is no place for you,” growled Swithin, “I'm going to see you home.” “Oh!” cried Rozsi; “but papa and—Margit!” “That's their look-out!” and he hurried her away. She slid her hand under his arm; the soft curves of her form brushed him gently, each touch only augmented his ill-humour. He burned with a perverse rage, as if all the passions in him were simmering and ready to boil over; it was as if a poison were trying to work its way out of him, through the layers of his stolid flesh. He maintained a dogged silence; Rozsi, too, said nothing, but when they reached the door, she drew her hand away. “You are angry!” she said. “Angry,” muttered Swithin; “no! How d'you make that out?” He had a torturing desire to kiss her. “Yes, you are angry,” she repeated; “I wait here for papa and Margit.” Swithin also waited, wedged against the wall. Once or twice, for his sight was sharp, he saw her steal a look at him, a beseeching look, and hardened his heart with a kind of pleasure. After five minutes Boleskey, Margit, and Kasteliz appeared. Seeing Rozsi they broke into exclamations of relief, and Kasteliz, with a glance at Swithin, put his lips to her hand. Rozsi's look said, “Wouldn't you like to do that?” Swithin turned short on his heel, and walked away. V