Panna Ratkovski turned her closely-clipped head to the book,—her hair had been luxuriant before, but she cut it so as not to occupy time needed for the sick man,—and answered,—
“This is Pan Zavilovski’s poetry.”
“Thou art listening to thy own poetry?” said Pan Stanislav, laughing. “Well, how does it please thee?”
“I hear it as if it were not my own,” replied Pan Ignas. After a while he added, speaking slowly, and stuttering a little, “But I shall write again as soon as I recover.”
It was evident that this thought occupied him greatly, and that he must have mentioned it more than once; for Panna Ratkovski, as if wishing to give him pleasure, said,—
“And the same kind of beautiful verses, and not too long.”
He smiled at her with gratitude, and was silent. But at that moment Panna Helena entered the room, and pressing Pan Stanislav’s hand, said,—
“How well it is that you have come! I wanted to take counsel with you.”
“I am at your service.”
“I beg you to come to my room.”