In the light of the lamp, placed by widow Clemens in the drawing-room, he appeared, indeed, after a few minutes, dressed, his hair arranged, perfumed, elegant with springy movements and an unconstrained smile on his lips. Only his lids were reddened, and on his forehead were many wrinkles which would not be smoothed away.
"A comedian! There is a comedian!" grumbled widow Clemens, returning to the kitchen, with a terrible clatter of overshoes.
The two young men pressed his hand in friendship. It was clear that they liked him.
"Why did you avoid us all day?" inquired Baron Emil. "We waited for you at Borel's—he gave us an excellent dinner. But maybe you are fasting?"
"Let him alone, he has his suffering," put in Maryan. "I am so sorry, mon bon vieux (my good old man), that I have persuaded the baron to join me in taking you out. I cannot, of course, leave you a victim to melancholy."
Kranitski was moved; gratitude and tenderness were gazing out of his eyes.
"Thanks, thanks! You touch me."
He pressed the hands of both in turn, holding Maryan's hand longer than the baron's, with the words:
"My dear-dear—dear."
The young man smiled.