Svirski smiled, showing two rows of teeth, wonderfully small, but white as ivory, and said,—
“I wish that were true.”
“And I will tell you why he did not bury his talent,” continued Bukatski; “his reasons were so parochial that it would be a shame for any decent artist to avow them. He loves Pognembin, which is somewhere in Poznan, or thereabouts, and he loves it because he was born there. If he had been born in Guadeloupe he would have loved Guadeloupe, and love for Guadeloupe would have saved him in life also. This man makes me indignant; and will the lady tell me if I am not right?”
To this Marynia answered, raising her blue eyes to Svirski, “Pan Bukatski is not so bad as he seems, for he has said everything that is good of you.”
“I shall die with my qualities known,” whispered Bukatski.
Svirski was looking meanwhile at Marynia, as only an artist can permit himself to look at a woman, and not offend. Interest was evident in his eyes, and at last he muttered,—
“To see such a head all at once, here in Venice, is a genuine surprise.”
“What?” asked Bukatski.
“I say, that the lady is of a wonderfully well-defined type. Oh, this, for example” (here he drew a line with his thumb along his nose, mouth, and chin). “And also what purity of outline!”
“Well, isn’t it true?” asked Pan Stanislav, with excitement. “I have always thought the same.”