I laughed, but was in reality very much upset.
When last together, Gina asked me to come over to her apartments, as she wanted me to read something she had.
It was almost gayly that she welcomed me in. Her eyes had lost their customary look of apathy, and shone with a strange fire.
“Owinski is going to be married this very week,” she remarked, as if stating a fact which did not concern her. “Have you read his poems?”
“I have; Witold and I read them together.”
“One of his poems had been dedicated to me; I know, for I myself saw it in proof—a proof that I myself corrected. And now the dedication has been removed from the title. When he received the revised proof, he probably crossed it off.”
She then took two closely written sheets of letter-paper out of a drawer.
“A letter from her!” she explained.
“To you!”
“Yes. Just read it.”