coutemued publicity with the sensitiveness of
a delicate teniper and the contempt of a scornful patriciau.
To Sabran it was not so oífensive; there was the Sláv in him, which loved display, and was not ill-pleased by notoriety. AU this admiration around them made him feel that his life after all had been a great success, that he had drawn prizes in the lottery of fate which all men envied him ; it lielped him to forget Egon Vásärhely. He had never so nearly felt affection for Bela as when lines of men and women stood still to watch the handsome child gallop on his pony down the avenues of the Bois. ' Life is after all like baccara or billiards/ he said to himself. ' It is of no use winning un- less there be a galérie to look on and applaud.' And then he felt ashamed of the poomess and triviality of the thought, which was not one he would háve expressed to his wife. That very morning, when she had read a long flattery of herself in a journal of fashion, she had cast the sheet from her with disgust on every line of her face. ' We are safe from that^ at least, in the Iselthal/ she had said. * Cannot you make them uuderstand that we are not public artists to need réclanies^ nor yet sovereigns to be compelled to submit to the microscope? Is i
