“You—yes. You, I am sure, would not let any one speak ill of me. I feel that you are sincerely well-wishing, though I know not why, for in general I am of so little worth.”
“You of little worth!” cried Pan Ignas, springing up. “Remember that, in truth, I will let no one speak ill of you, not even you yourself.”
Lineta laughed and said,—
“Very well; but sit down, for I cannot paint.”
He sat down; but he looked at her with a gaze so full of love and enchantment that it began to confuse her.
“What a disobedient model!” said she; “turn your head to the right a little, and do not look at me.”
“I cannot! I cannot!” answered Pan Ignas.
“And I, in truth, cannot paint, for the head was begun in another position. Wait!”
Then she approached him, and, taking his temples with her fingers, turned his head toward the right slightly. His heart began to beat like a hammer; everything went around in his eyes; and, holding the hand of Lineta, he pressed her warm palm to his lips, and made no answer,—he only pressed it more firmly.
“Talk with aunt,” said she, hurriedly. “We are going to-morrow.”