"H'm!" the Pole drums lightly with his fingers on the table, with the air of a man who knows more than he chooses to tell. A little while afterwards he is left alone with Selina in the dining-room.
"Have you any idea of whom the letter was from?" the Countess asks him.
"Not the least," he replies, buttoning his morning coat to the throat, an action which always in his case betokens the possession of some important secret.
"Will you be kind enough to inform me of what you are thinking?" Selina says, imperiously, and not without a certain sharpness of tone.
"You are aware, Countess, that ordinarily your wish is law for me," the Pole replies, with dignity, "but in this case it is unfortunately impossible for me to comply with your request."
"Why?"
"Because you might be offended by my communication, and it would be terrible for me were I to displease you."
"Tell me!" the Countess commands.
"If it must be, then----" He shrugs his shoulders as if to disclaim any responsibility in the matter, and, stroking his moustache affectedly, continues: "I am convinced that the letter in question has to do with Treurenberg's pecuniary embarrassments,--voilà!"
"Pecuniary embarrassments!" exclaims the Countess, with irritation. "How should my husband have any such?"