“I sincerely hope you may be successful,” was my parting wish.
Witold, contrary to my expectations, has not yet called again. There is something going on that is beyond me, incomprehensible.
I am assailed by innumerable thoughts which make me turn pale with fear.
He, too, is possibly “seeking oblivion,” as I was; but he is scarce likely to stop in time, like me. Moreover, his vengeance will not, like mine, be a more horrible pain than the injury itself.
He has a supremely great advantage over me, and the conditions of the struggle are the most unequal possible.
Will he delay coming for long? Is it conceivable that he has given me up for ever?
I was in tears all this evening.
Idalia felt it her duty to try and comfort me. A kind, lovable girl she is. And she knows how to deal skilfully with “semi-tones” of every description. Her eyes are gentle, her face a little faded and careworn; there is something maternal about her.
“We take everything so very seriously, so very much au tragique,” she says. “And that, you see, puts us more in their power. We should analyse things less, and learn rather to glide over them. Analysis is a two-edged weapon: it easily turns and wounds you. Do endeavour to pass along with a cursory look about you, even with half-closed eyes; things will seem different at once. Don’t cry any more: and if he should come, the servant is to let him in, is she not?”
“On no account; on no account;” I cried, in a fury.