We go out to inspect some new kinds of ornamental shrubs which Martha has recently had planted in the park. Janusz walks with me; Imszanski with Martha, a few paces before us.
These two make a pretty picture, on which I like to gaze. In this grand old park, they remind me of the days of yore, and the knights and their lady-loves. Martha, I remark, has a style and breeding that I lack. To help her over a plash of water, Imszanski gives her his hand. She gathers up her dress, just revealing her neat and shapely ankles. The pair are just like dancers in a minuet, and so handsome that I cannot find it in my heart to envy them.
Janusz walks at my side like a shadow, and follows my glances with eyes ablaze.
“A fine man, Imszanski: you like him, don’t you?” he asks. “But,” he goes on to say, “I don’t advise you to try your hand on him: he is another’s. Has loved long and hopelessly.”
“Has he?”
“When in Warsaw, he went the length of attempting suicide—unsuccessfully, I need not say.”
“But this love of his, is it not only hopeless, but unrequited too?”
“Well, he proposed—and was refused. But that’s no wonder. Such a man should never marry; a whole seraglio would not be enough for him.”
“H’m, yes; that would be quite in his line. Who is the girl? Does she live near?”
“Yes, she does.”