"Never mind the explanation," interrupted Wanda. "Who cares for that, if the legend is only beautiful? And it is delightful--don't you think so?"
"Well, really, I have never given its beauty a thought," replied Waldemar.
"Have you, then, no feeling for the poetic? That is deplorable."
"Do you really think so?" he asked, in surprise.
"Indeed I do."
"No one has ever taught me to know or to appreciate what you call the poetic," the young man said, in a tone of apology. "The poetic plays no part in my uncle's house, and my tutors have given me only dry lessons in practical things. I now begin to comprehend for the first time that there is such a thing as poetry."
As Waldemar said this, his face had an unusually dreamy expression. He threw back the hair which usually hung low over his forehead, and leaned his head against the trunk of the tree. Wanda now for the first time made the discovery that a remarkably high and finely shaped forehead lay concealed under that mass of blonde hair. It was a forehead that dignified and ennobled the plain, irregular features. Over the left temple ran a peculiarly marked blue vein, clearly and sharply defined even in calm, untroubled moments. Wanda had often ridiculed that "tawny lion's mane," little dreaming of the clear, high brow that lay beneath.
"Do you know, Waldemar, that I have just made a discovery?" she said.
"Ah! what is it?" he answered, abstractedly.
"That singular blue vein on your forehead; my aunt has one just like it, only not so strongly defined."