“Be quiet, fly! I am not talking to you. Krysia, the speech is to you. Do you want Ketling as husband?”
Krysia had grown pale somewhat, though at first she thought that Zagloba was asking Basia, not her; then she raised on the old noble her beautiful dark-blue eyes. “No,” answered she, calmly.
“Well, ’pon my word! No! At least it is short. ’Pon my word!—’pon my word! And why do you not want him?”
“I want no one.”
“Krysia, tell that to some one else,” put in Basia.
“What brought the married state into such contempt with you?” continued Zagloba.
“Not contempt; I have a vocation for the convent,” answered Krysia.
There was in her voice so much seriousness and such sadness that Basia and Zagloba did not admit even for a moment that she was jesting; but such great astonishment seized both that they began to look as if dazed, now on each other, now on Krysia.
“Well!” said Zagloba, breaking the silence first.
“I wish to enter a convent,” repeated Krysia, with sweetness.