In the last few days I have become quite intimate with Lukomski. He is not so self-contained and melancholy as he used to be. Yesterday, towards evening, he came to see me; we went out for a walk as far as the Thermes of Caracalla; then I asked him to come back with me, and he stopped until midnight. I had a long talk with him, which I note down, as it made upon me a certain impression. Lukomski seemed a little ashamed of the exhibition of feeling he had made near "The Dying Gladiator;" but I led him on and gradually came to know the man as he really was. As we were growing very friendly I ventured to remark,—
"Excuse the question, but I cannot understand why a man so fond of domestic life has not taken to himself a companion. Neither your studio, your assistants, nor your dogs can give you the feeling of a home you are missing, as a wife would."
Lukomski smiled, and pointing to the ring on his finger, said,—
"I am going to be married shortly. We are only waiting because the young lady is in mourning for her father; I am to join her in two months."
"At Sierpiec?"
"No, she comes from Wilkomierz."
"What took you to Wilkomierz?"
"I have never been there. I met her by accident on the Corso in Rome."
"That was a fortunate accident, was it not?"
"The most fortunate in my life."