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Swithin was long in deciding to go forth next day. He had made up his mind not to go to Rozsi till five o'clock. 'Mustn't make myself too cheap, he thought. It was a little past that hour when he at last sallied out, and with a beating heart walked towards Boleskey's.
"It is the last bottle." "What?" said Swithin; "and you gave it to a beggar?" "My name is Boleskey Stefan," the Hungarian said, raising his head; "of the Komorn Boleskeys." The simplicity of this phrase as who shall say: What need of further description? made an impression on Swithin; he stopped to listen. Boleskey's story went on and on.
'What do they know of life? he thought; 'they might be here a year and get no farther. He made jokes, and pinned the menu to the waiter's coat-tails. "I like this place," he said, "I shall spend three weeks here." James, whose lips were on the point of taking in a plum, looked at him uneasily. On the day of the dinner Swithin suffered a good deal. He reflected gloomily on Boleskey's clothes.
To talk with the fellow, too, was like being forced to look at things which had no place in the light of day. Freedom, equality, self-sacrifice! 'Why can't he settle down at some business, he thought, 'instead of all this talk? Boleskey's sudden diffidences, self-depreciation, fits of despair, irritated him. "Morbid beggar!" he would mutter; "thank God I haven't a thin skin." And proud too!
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