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Wibra?" he inquired. "Yes; and you?" "I am St. Peter." "What do you want?" "I wish to sign a receipt for your happiness." "For my happiness?" "I see you cannot get your umbrella, and my friend Gregorics has asked me to help you. So I am quite willing to sign a paper declaring that I did not give the umbrella to the young lady." "It is very good of you, but I have neither paper nor ink here.

But the poet had his reward in the form of a black eye and a bleeding nose, bestowed upon him by Gyuri Wibra, who, however, began to be vexed himself at the sight of the red umbrella, which made his old friend seem ridiculous in the eyes of his schoolfellows, and one day he broached the subject to the old gentleman. "You might really buy a new umbrella, uncle." The old gentleman smiled.

And the inhabitants of the villages round about would say when the good folks turned their backs: "Poor things! Their brains have been turned with the joy of having a Jew in their town!" One fine spring afternoon, a light sort of dog-cart stopped before Mrs. Müncz's shop, and a young man sprang out of it, Gyuri Wibra, of course. Rosália, who was just standing at her door, speaking to Mr.

"Don't look at the sky, you stupid," said another; "if you want to find it look at the ground." But as chance would have it, some one found it who would rather not have done so, and that some one was Gyuri Wibra. He had only walked a few steps, when a green eye seemed to smile up at him from the dust under his feet. He stooped and picked it up; it was the lost earring with the emerald in it.

"It really does seem as though Divine Providence had something to do with it. The shaft of my carriage broke, or I should never have come near that precipice." "If I live to be a hundred I shall never forget your kindness to me, and your name will always have a place in my prayers. But how thoughtless of me! I have not even asked you your name yet." "Gyuri Wibra."

"Perhaps because of their mustaches?" Veronica turned her head away impatiently. "Mr. Wibra, you are beginning to be unpleasant." "Thank you for the compliment." "What compliment?" "You say I am beginning to be unpleasant, which is as much as to say I was pleasant till now." "I see it is dangerous to talk with you, for you put words into my mouth I never intended saying. I shall not speak again."

But Gyuri Wibra paid no attention to any of them; he was a serious and retiring young man, and his friends soon saw that he was infinitely above them in every way. As a rule young men first take their diploma, then start an office, look out for clients who do not come, and by their absence make the place seem so large and empty, that the young lawyer feels he must have company of some kind.

"Well," said Mravucsán, "what's true is true. One need not be ashamed of being pretty. I was good-looking myself once, but I was never ashamed of it. Besides, a pretty face is of great use to one, isn't it, Mr. Wibra?" "Yes, it is a very lucky thing," answered Gyuri quickly. Mravucsán shook his head.

"The hairpins must have fallen out when I jumped out of the carriage. What am I to do?" "Let down the other plait," advised Mravucsán. "That's it, my dear; it is much prettier so, isn't it, Wibra?" "Much prettier," answered Gyuri, casting an admiring glance at the two black, velvety plaits, with a lovely dark bluish tinge on them, which hung nearly down to the edge of her millefleurs skirt.

Oh! if it were only daylight, and he could move on. His watch was ticking on the table beside his bed; he looked at it, the hands pointed to midnight. Impossible! It must be later than that; his watch must be slow! Somewhere in the distance a cock crew, as much as to say: "Your watch is quite right, Mr. Wibra."