Here Plavitski passed into a narrative concerning his lodgings, with the volubility of a child amused by something, or of an old lover of comfort, who smiles at every improvement. At last he said,—
“I had barely looked around when I found myself at home. Dear Warsaw is my old friend; I know her well.”
But at that moment some one entered the adjoining room.
“That is Marynia, surely,” said Plavitski. “Marynia, art thou there?” called he.
“I am,” answered a youthful voice.
“Come here; we have a guest.”
Marynia appeared in the door. At sight of Pan Stanislav, astonishment shone on her face. He, rising, bowed; and when she approached the table, he stretched out his hand in greeting. She gave him her own with as much coldness as politeness. Then she turned to her father, as if no one else were present in the room,—
“I have seen the lodgings; they are neat and comfortable, but I am not sure that the street is not too noisy.”
“All streets are noisy,” answered Plavitski. “Warsaw is not a village.”
“Pardon me; I will go to remove my hat,” said Marynia. And, returning to her room, she did not appear for some time.