The Vajkays usually rose on the dot of seven. Skylark would open all the windows, airing and cleaning the rooms inside.

Today the old couple had overslept. The nightlight still flickered beside the carriage clock.

When they first opened their eyes it was already twenty to twelve. They were surprised to find themselves alone. For a moment they pricked up their ears, but no sound came from their daughter's room next door. The anxieties of the previous day still hung heavy on their hearts, and as they woke they lived the whole day over again.

But another, no less painful sensation now presented itself besides. Their stomachs began to rumble: a loud, hollow sound, silencing all other complaints and demanding their undivided attention.

While they slept, dreams had provided illusory nourishment, smothering their hunger with thick and coloured veils. But no sooner had they dressed than they could feel their emptiness, and pressed their palms against their burning stomachs.

“I'm starving,” said father.

“Me too,” said Mother.

And they laughed at their own frailty.

No wonder they were famished. They had forgotten supper the evening before and had only pecked hurriedly at lunch. Such meals are never filling.

“Quickly, tea.”

“Yes, tea.”

Mother went into the kitchen to make tea.

The Vajkays didn't keep a maid. Skylark's nanny, Örzse, a liveryman's daughter, who had been with them since the age of twenty, had left them six years before. Since then they had taken on the odd girl here and there, but these never stayed more than a couple of weeks. Skylark was so strict, keeping everything locked away, especially the sugar, and so demanding that the maids all fled before their time was up. They didn't want a new girl in their home now; after all, they had to be careful with money, had to count every penny. Besides, the girls all stole and gossiped nowadays. And anyway, what could a maid do that they could not? Skylark and her mother did everything themselves, and better too. Cleaning was a joy, and as for cooking, they loved nothing more. They were always boiling or baking something.

Mother and Father drank their tea. But this did not stave off their hunger. It merely cleansed their stomachs, increasing the emptiness. Their thoughts turned at once to lunch.

Already some weeks earlier it had been agreed that, for these few days–it was only a week, after all–they wouldn't cook at home. Skylark, who presided in all culinary matters, recommended the King of Hungary, Sárszeg's largest restaurant, as the one place where the cuisine was still tolerable.

The three of them detested restaurants. And although they had hardly visited this one, they could talk about it for hours with sneering condescension. The dishwater soups, the tough and gristly meat, the carelessly concocted desserts they served up to poor, unsuspecting bachelors, who had never tasted good home cooking. Not to mention the disgusting state of the kitchens. Oh, for a home-made soup, a homemade stew, or a home-baked pastry! They had often expressed such sentiments to Géza Cifra.

Somehow they had to overcome the disgust they had artificially cultivated beyond all proportion. On the way to the restaurant they comforted each other, braving themselves for the dubious event. When they stepped inside the King of Hungary they immediately wrinkled their noses and screwed up their eyes. An enormous, clean and friendly dining hall stretched out before them, with a ceiling of frosted glass, lit, even by day, by four weighty chandeliers.

Ákos led his wife to a table and sat down.

In the middle of the impeccably laundered tablecloth stood a bunch of flowers. Beside it were two small silver dishes freshly heaped with salt and paprika, a pepper pot and jars of mustard, vinegar and oil.