"Because, when I gave her 'good-morning,' I thought that she was ill, she was so pale—pale. I asked her, but she said: 'Oh, it is nothing, I am well.' Still it seems to me—"
"Let nothing seem to you!" Irene interrupted her almost angrily. "The surmises of children like you have no sense in them most of the time. Where are you going?"
"To father."
She pointed with her eyes to her mother's rooms.
"Is that—that man there?"
It was not to be discovered why she spoke in lowered tones, but
Irene's voice sounded almost harsh when she inquired:
"What man?"
"Pan Kranitski."
Now Cara's red, small lips, in the twinkle of an eye, formed a crooked line in spite of her; then, bending toward her sister, she said, almost in a whisper:
"Tell me, Ira, but tell the truth. Do you like that man—Kranitski?" Irene laughed aloud, freely, almost as she had never laughed.