And then we fell back into silence.  I felt that I ought to ask after her mother, and about herself, but could not force myself to do so.  I wished from my soul somebody would come and deliver us from this position.  Presently my aunt came in with the young Doctor Chwastowski, the agent’s son, who for a month past has had the care of Pani Celina.  Aniela slipped away to pour out the tea, and I began to talk with my aunt.  I had recovered my presence of mind entirely when we sat down to breakfast.  I began now to inquire after Pani Celina’s health.  My aunt, telling me about her, appealed every moment to the doctor, who turned to me with that peculiar shade of superciliousness with which a newly patented scientist treats outsiders, and at the same time with the watchfulness of a democrat who is afraid of slights where none are intended.  He appeared to me very conceited; and after all, I treated him with far greater politeness than he exhibited towards me.  This amused me a little, and helped to keep my thoughts, which the sight of Aniela confused, under control.  From time to time I looked at her across the table, and repeated to myself:  “The same features, the same little face, the same low brow shaded by a wealth of hair; it is the same Aniela, almost a little girl, my love, my happiness; and now lost to me forever.”  There was inexpressible sweetness in the sensation, mingled with exquisite pain.  Aniela, too, had recovered from her emotion, but looked still frightened.  I tried to draw her into conversation, speaking about her mother.  I was partly successful; she seemed a little more at ease, and said,—­

“Mamma will be very glad to see you.”

I permitted myself a doubt as far as her mother was concerned, but listened to her voice with half-closed eyes; it was sweeter to me than any music.

We were conversing more freely every moment.  My aunt was in excellent spirits,—­first, because of seeing me once more at Ploszow, and also because she had seen Clara and got from her the promise of a concert.  When leaving the artist she had met two other ladies, patronesses of charitable institutions, ascending the staircase bent on the same errand.  They were too late, and that had put her in a high good-humor.  She asked me a great many questions about Clara, who had made an excellent impression upon her.  Towards the end of breakfast, to satisfy my aunt’s curiosity, I had to say something about my travels.  She was amazed to hear I had been as far as Iceland, and asked what it looked like; she then remarked,—­

“One must be desperate to go to such places as that.”

“Yes; I did not feel very cheerful when I went.”

Aniela looked at me for a moment, and there was that hunted, half-frightened expression in her eyes again.  If she had put her hand upon my naked heart she could not have given it a sharper pull.  The more I had prepared myself for an exhibition of triumphant coldness and satisfaction at my disappointment, the more I felt crushed now by that angelic compassion.  All my calculations and foresight had been put to naught.  I supposed she could not help showing herself off as a married woman.  And now I had to remind myself that she was married; but in the recollection there was no loathing, nothing but inexpressible sorrow.