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departed. All of this had spoken unequivocally toBalint of his aunt’s deep and ineradicable love for her homeland … and also of the spiritual barrier she had never really vanquished that stood between her real self and this grandiose westernized world in which she had lived so many years. That evening, for the first time, Balint had understood the little room’s almost symbolic meaning.
    A year had gone by since that last evening at Jablanka and yet, as he wandered along the dark streets in the drizzling rain, he could now see it all in his mind and relive everything that had then happened to him. Once again he saw the two of them sitting in that slightly over-heated room which was so different from everything else in the house. It was like a tiny island, he thought suddenly, which Fate had one day wrenched away from its parent Transylvania and deposited there so far from home.

    Reliving those bitter memories during those hours of aimless wandering did nothing to alleviate Balint’s deep-rooted bitterness, so much so that he now felt he could not face a happy social gathering in his present mood. For a moment he wondered if he could make some excuse so as to get out of going altogether, perhaps sending word that he had developed a bad headache, or some such lie, but then, he thought, how could he do it? He could hardly go up to the Prefect’s front door and say that he wasn’t well enough to come, for the doorman would be certain to tell his master that it was Count Abady himself who had delivered the message! And if he sent a waiter from one of the cafés that were still open it would soon be known that he had been seen there. Better, perhaps, to go home and send round his valet with a visiting -card and a little note? He looked at his watch and saw that it was already half past eleven and all the servants at the Abady house would be in bed asleep. He would have to wake someone, who would then have to dress, and it would all take far too long. He was already late for the party, and the other guests, and the famous French singer, were no doubt at that very moment waiting for him. No doubt, as he spoke good French, he was expected to be the diva’s supper partner, and if he waited any longer it was more than likely that everyone would have gone in to eat and that his place, beside the guest of honour, would remain empty. It would be a gross lack of politeness to stay away a minute longer than it would take him to reach the house.
    All this was going through his mind as he walked, now more swiftly than before, towards his host’s house. He knew that theopera had ended some time before because a number of carriages bringing other guests from the theatre had already passed him in the street, which was now again silent and deserted. Everyone must have already arrived at the house. Balint quickened his pace almost breaking into a run, because he realized that whether he wanted to or not he would have to go to the party.
    The Prefect’s house blazed with light, but the street outside was deserted except for a one-horse carriage which was waiting to one side of the front door.
    Abady was just stepping hurriedly past it when the tall figure of Adam Alvinczy, Margit’s husband, jumped out and grabbed his arm.
    ‘I’ve been waiting for you,’ he said excitedly. ‘Margit sent me to catch you here!’
    Somehow Balint was not surprised, as he had sensed that the chance encounter with Adrienne was bound to provoke something no one could foresee.
    ‘Well?’ he said. ‘What is it?’
    ‘We knew you’d be here. Margit says you’re to come at once … there’s some trouble at home; that’s why she sent me. Come on then! Quickly!’
    As they got into the carriage Adam called out to the coachman to drive at once back to the Uzdy villa.
    Balint felt his throat constrict so that he could hardly speak. Somehow he managed to ask what had happened.
    ‘I don’t know,’ said Adam. ‘All I can tell you is that when we got home