“Countess Tarnowska!” he exclaimed, holding out both his hands.
I laid my hand in his; as he clasped it between his black-gloved fingers a slight shiver ran through me. I turned to the pale little child beside him who was still glancing up at me timidly. “Is this Grania?”
“Yes. It is Grania,” said Count Kamarowsky. Then he perceived my questioning glance at his mourning. “Poor Emilia—” he began, but his voice broke.
“Poor Emilia?” Was it possible that my little school friend of long ago, the fair-haired, laughter-loving Lily should now be “poor Emilia,” to be spoken of in solemn, mournful tones? I could hardly believe it. I seemed to see her still, bending over her 'cello with her fair curls tumbling over her face as she played her favorite Popper tarantelle.... I could see her laughing with mischievous eyes agleam behind her flaxen locks, like dark stars seen through a golden cloud. And here, clad in mourning for her, her husband and child stood before me.
Great tenderness and pity filled my heart.
Tioka had gone close to Grania, and the two children were looking at each other with that expression of simple gravity which is so far removed from the conventional smile with which grown-up people greet each other for the first time. Their gaze was serious, thoughtful and interrogative.
“Do you like pelicans?” Tioka inquired suddenly.
“No,” said Grania.
“Neither do I,” said Tioka; and there was a long silence.
“Do you like ducks?” asked Tioka.