It seemed to her as if they were wronging Yosef, but she felt offended at him, too, because he was the son of a blacksmith.
At tea she sat near her cousin, a little thoughtful, a little sad, turning unquiet glances toward Augustinovich, who from the moment of his malicious interference filled her with a certain fear.
"Indeed thou art not thyself, Lula," said Pani Visberg, placing her hand on the girl's heated forehead.
Malinka, who was standing with the teapot in her hand, pouring tea in the light, stopped the yellowish stream, and turning her head said with a smile,—
"Lula is only serious. I find thee, Lula, in black colors—art thou in love?"
The countess understood Malinka's idea, but she was not confused.
"Black is the color of mourning; in every case it is my color."
"And beautiful as thy word, cousin," added Pelski.
After tea she seated herself at the piano, and from behind the music-rack could be seen her shapely forehead marked with regular brows. She played a certain melancholy mazurka of Chopin, but trouble and disquiet did not leave her face.
Augustinovich knew music, and from her playing he divined the condition of her mind. Still he thought,—