“Of the business of which I was talking with Bigiel.”
And, shaking the ashes from his cigar, he replaced it in his mouth, and drew so vigorously that a ruddy gleam lighted his mustache and a part of his face.
Zavilovski, looking at Marynia’s face, thought in his young soul that if she were his wife he would not smoke a cigar, nor think of business of which he had been talking with Bigiel, but might kneel before her and adore her on his knees.
And gradually, under the influence of the night and that sweet womanly face, which he glorified, exaltation possessed him. After a time he began to declaim, at first in silence, as if to himself, then more audibly, his verses entitled, “Snows on the Mountains.” There was in that poem, as it were, an immense yearning for something unapproachable and immaculate. Zavilovski himself did not know when they arrived in the city, and when lamps began to gleam on both sides of the street. At Pan Stanislav’s house Marynia said,—
“To-morrow, then, to a five o’clock.”
“Yes,” answered he, kissing her hand.
Marynia was sunk somewhat in revery under the influence of the ride, the night, and maybe the verses. But from the time of their stay in Rome, she and her husband had repeated the rosary together. And after these prayers a great tenderness possessed her suddenly,—as it were, an influx of feeling, hidden for a time by other impressions. Approaching him, she put her arms around his neck, and whispered,—
“My Stas, but we feel so pleasant together, do we not?”
He drew her toward him, and answered with a certain careless boastfulness,—
“But do I complain?”