“I was writing.”
“A poem?”
“Yes, called ‘Spider-web;’ I will bring it to-morrow. You remember that when I made your acquaintance, you said that you would like to be a spider-web. I remembered that; and since then I see continually such a snowy thread sporting in the air.”
“It sports, but not with its own power,” answered Lineta, “and cannot soar unless—”
“What? Why do you not finish?”
“Unless it winds around the wing of a Soarer.”
When she had said this, she rose quickly and went to help Osnovski, who was opening the window.
Zavilovski remained alone with mist in his eyes. It seemed to him that he heard the throbbing of his temples. The honeyed voice of Pani Bronich first brought him to his senses,—
“A couple of days ago old Pan Zavilovski told me that you and he are related; but that you are not willing to visit him, and that he cannot visit you, since he has the gout. Why not visit him? He is a man of such distinction, and so pleasant. Go to him; it is even a disappointment to him that you do not go. Go to visit him.”
“Very well; I can go,” answered Zavilovski, who was ready that moment to agree to anything.