vivacious, easy-going woman was a great help in bringing Clara and Aniela into closer relation.  I saw that my aunt met Clara with great heartiness; but Aniela, in spite of her sweet disposition, seemed shy, and kept aloof from her.  At lunch, amid a cheerful conversation, she thawed a little.  Clara seemed struck by Aniela’s beauty, and as she always says what she thinks, she expressed her admiration with so much grace and enthusiasm that Aniela had to yield.

Pani Celina, who now perhaps for the first time found herself in company with an artist, looked gratified, and turning to her said that “though Aniela’s mother, she must say that as a child she was very pretty,—­promising far greater beauty.”  Both Sniatynskis joined in the conversation.  He began to discuss with Clara various female types, then spoke of Aniela’s type and its aesthetic perfection in a highly amusing objective manner, as if she were a portrait hanging on the wall, rather than a living presence.  She, listening to this, blushed and lowered her eyes, truly like a little girl, which made her look more charming than ever.

I was silent, but inwardly compared these three female faces, treating them also objectively, that is, putting aside the fact that one of them was the loved one, and as such occupied an exceptional position; even then everything spoke in her favor.  Pani Sniatynska’s, especially in her short curly hair, is a charming head, yet nothing but what may be found in any English Keepsake.  Clara’s beauty rests mainly upon her calm expression, the blue eyes, and that transparent complexion so often met with in German women; but for her art, which surrounds her as with a nimbus, she could only be called a handsome woman.  Aniela is not only an artistic production of an exceedingly noble style as regards her features, but there is something individual in her that cannot be measured by any standard.  Maybe her individuality rests upon the fact that, being neither dark nor fair, she gives the physical impression of a brunette and the spiritual one of a blonde.  The cause of this is perhaps the great abundance of hair on a comparatively small head; enough that she is unique in her kind.  She excels even Mrs. Davis in this regard, whose beauty was without a flaw, but it was the beauty of a statue.  Mrs. Davis only excited the admiration of my senses, while Aniela rouses in me the idealist, who goes in rapture over the poetry of her expression.

But I will not even compare these two so utterly different beings.  I yielded to these reflections during lunch, because the topic in question had brought me on that track; besides, the analysis of Aniela’s beauty always gives me a keen delight.  My aunt interrupted the discussion, deeming it proper, as lady of the house, to say something about Clara’s last concert.  She spoke much and very well; I never supposed she had such knowledge of music; she paid her some graceful compliments with the air of a grande dame, in that flowing, winning style only people of the older generation are capable of.  In short, I observed that my downright, outspoken aunt was still able to recall the times of powder and patches.  Clara seemed quite charmed, and did not remain behind-hand in graceful acknowledgment.