Her face was bright with burning blushes; Aniela instead looked fagged, though she evidently tried to keep up with the Sniatynskis, who were as lively as a couple of school-children on their holiday.  They began finally to race with each other, and Clara joined in the sport, which she ought not to have done, considering her size, as the quick motion was anything but graceful,—­nay, almost ridiculous.

When they were thus running after each other I remained alone with Aniela.  According to my plan of operations I was anxious to bring her mind to full consciousness through the uneasiness with which she seemed to be oppressed.

“There is something troubling you, Aniela; what is it?” I asked.

“No, nothing whatever.”

“It seemed to me as if you were dissatisfied with something; is it that you do not like Clara?”

“No; I like her very much, and do not wonder she is so much admired.”

Further conversation was made impossible by the return of the truants.  It was also time to go back.  On the way, Sniatynski asked Clara whether she felt really satisfied with her stay at Warsaw.

“The best proof I can give you of this is that I do not think of going away yet,” she replied gayly.

“We must try to keep you with us always,” I interpolated.

Clara, in spite of the simplicity with which she accepts all that is said to her, looked questioningly at me, then grew a little confused, and replied,—­“They are all very kind to me here.”

I was conscious that my words were in a way dishonorable, as they might mislead Clara; but all I cared for was the impression they would make upon Aniela.  Unfortunately, I could not see her face, as she was buttoning her gloves, with her head bent so low that her hat concealed it from me.  This sudden movement seemed to me a good sign.

The elder ladies were awaiting us with the dinner, which lasted until nine o’clock; and then Clara improvised her Fruehlingslied.  I am almost certain that since Ploszow existed there had never been heard such music within its walls, but I paid very little attention to it.  I sat near her in the dusk, as she did not want the lamps lit.  Sniatynski waved his arm as if it were a baton; which evidently annoyed his wife, as she pulled his sleeve several times.  Aniela sat quite motionless; maybe she, too, was absorbed in her own thoughts, and did not listen to the Fruehlingslied.  I was almost certain she was thinking about me and Clara, and especially about the meaning of the words I had said to Clara.  It was easy enough to guess that even if she did not love me, or had the slightest consciousness that my love was any other but brotherly affection, she would feel sore and disappointed if that were about to be taken away from her.  A woman who is not happy in her married life clings round any other feeling, if it be only friendship, as the ivy clings to the tree.  I had no doubt whatever