“Usual service?” repeated Krysia, And she began to hurry in silence toward the house. Pan Michael walked quickly at her side, a trifle confused. Somehow it was a little oppressive and dull in his mind. He wanted to say something; he wanted to begin conversation again; he did not succeed. But still it seemed to him that he had a thousand things to say to her, and that just then was the time, while they were alone and no one preventing.
“If I begin,” thought he, “it will go on;” therefore he inquired all at once, “But is it long since Pan Adam came?”
“Not long,” answered Krysia.
And again their conversation stopped.
“The road is not that way,” thought Pan Michael. “While I begin in that fashion, I shall never say anything. But I see that sorrow has gnawed away what there was of my wit.”
And for a time he hurried on in silence; his mustaches merely quivered more and more vigorously. At last he halted before the house and said, “Think, if I deferred my happiness so many years to serve the country, with what face could I refuse now to put off my own comfort?”
It seemed to the little knight that such a simple argument should convince Krysia at once; in fact, after a while she answered with sadness and mildness, “The more nearly one knows Pan Michael, the more one respects and honors him.”
Then she entered the house. Basia’s exclamations of “Allah! Allah!” reached her in the entrance. And when they came to the reception-room, they saw Pan Adam in the middle of it, blindfolded, bent forward, and with outstretched arms trying to catch Basia, who was hiding in corners and giving notice of her presence by cries of “Allah!” Pani Makovetski was occupied near the window in conversation with Zagloba.
The entrance of Krysia and the little knight interrupted the amusement. Pan Adam pulled off the handkerchief and ran to greet Volodyovski. Immediately after came Pani Makovetski, Zagloba, and the panting Basia.
“What is it? what is it? What did the hetman say?” asked one, interrupting another.