The old man jumped up suddenly. His eyes became rigid and seemed standing out of their sockets; his lips quivered, and he held out his hands as if to defend himself. "A--ah!" he groaned. The next instant he had caught her by both hands, and dragged her to the window into the full light. His eyes sought hers and held them fast, his gaze sinking deeper and deeper into hers. He breathed with difficulty; there was a gurgling in his throat, but no words came in this anguish of soul. The question to which he demanded an answer lay in his glazed and terrified eyes.
She bore the stare, the color mounting higher and higher in her pale face, until neck and brow were suffused with a vivid purple; but her eyelids never drooped. She understood the silent question conveyed by the horror in his eyes, and she answered it in the same silent manner.
He drew a deep, deep breath, and let her hands fall. "Tell me," he commanded, abruptly.
She hesitated.
"Have I not the right?" he exclaimed.
"Yes, perhaps, but I am not sure. Father, I do not know myself how it has come about. I did not wish it, but I was forced into it, and perhaps it was the same with him. But his intentions are honorable."
"We will hear of that later. Go on."
She told, at first in confused, indistinct words, how she had met his eyes at the entrance into the town, and what a tumult of emotions his conduct had awakened in her the evening of the ball. But as she passed on to the conversation after Wiliszenski's reading, she overcame her fears, and she told everything as she knew it--the whole truth.
He stood with his forehead pressed against the window, and listened quietly, interrupting her but once. As she was telling him of other meetings at Wroblewski's house, he asked suddenly: "And you did not observe you were always alone?"
"No, I supposed it was a--"