“For God’s sake, have you asked her already?”
“Let us not speak of this. Do me the favor.”
“Well, let us talk of the weather. May the thunderbolt strike you, and your ways! So you must go, and I must curse.”
“I take farewell of you.”
“Wait, wait! Anger will leave me this moment. My Ketling, wait, for I had something to say to you. When do you go?”
“As soon as I can settle my affairs. I should like to wait in Courland for the quarter’s rent; and the house in which we have been living I would sell willingly if any one would buy it.”
“Let Makovetski buy it, or Michael. In God’s name! but you will not go away without seeing Michael?”
“I should be glad in my soul to see him.”
“He may be here any moment. He may incline you to Krysia.”
Here Zagloba stopped, for a certain alarm seized him suddenly. “I was serving Michael in good intent,” thought he, “but terribly against his will; if discord is to rise between him and Ketling, better let Ketling go away.” Here Zagloba rubbed his bald head with his hand; at last he added, “One thing and another was said out of pure good-will. I have so fallen in love with you that I would be glad to detain you by all means; therefore I put Krysia before you, like a bit of bacon. But that was only through good-will. What is it to me, old man? In truth, that was only good-will,—nothing more. I am not match-making; if I were, I would have made a match for myself. Ketling, give me your face,[16] and be not angry.”