viduality? Was that for me? Hardly, even if I, probably, of all those who now stood near to Imre von N.... But there! I had no right! Even if I..... But there! I swore to myself that I had no wish!
It was Imre himself who gave me a sort of determinative, just as—after the oaths at which Jove laughs—I was querying with myself what I might do believe.
One evening, we were walking home, after an hour or so with his father and mother. As we turned the corner of a certain brilliantly lighted café, a man of perhaps forty years, with the unmistakeable suggestion of a soldier about him, and of much distinction of person along with it, but in civilian's dress, came out and passed us. He looked at Imre as if almost startled. Then he bowed. Imre returned his salutation with so particular a coldness, an immediate change of expression, that I noticed it.
«Who is he?» I asked. «Somehow I fancy he is not in your best books.»
«No, I can't say that he is,» responded Imre. After a moment of silence he went on.
