Then I repeated to Clara, who does not understand Polish, the lines in French, improvising the translation.  She listened to it, then raised her eyes heavenward, and said simply,—­

“I was always certain there is music in the spheres.”

It appeared that Pani Sniatynska was equally certain of it, and reminded her husband that she had discussed it with him not long before, but he was not quite sure he remembered; whereupon a slight matrimonial dispute took place, at which Clara and I laughed.  Aniela had not joined the conversation at all; did she feel hurt that I had offered my arm to Clara, and paid her some attention?  The very supposition made me feel happy.  Yet I tried not to lose my head, and said to myself, “Do not run away with the idea that she knows what jealousy means; she is only a little sad and feels lonely, that is all.”  I would have given at this moment a whole host of artists such as Clara for a few words with Aniela,—­to tell her that I belong to her, and only to her.  Then Sniatynski began a discussion about astronomy, of which I heard now and then a few words, though this science attracts me more than I can tell,—­for in its very nature there is no limit, either in itself or for the human mind; it is infinite.

We reached at last the end, where our guests mounted into the carriage.  Presently the wheels rattled on the road, the last good-bys reached our ears, and I was alone with Aniela.  We turned homewards, and for some time walked side by side in silence.  The croaking of the frogs has ceased, and from the distance came the sound of the watchman’s whistle and the loud baying of the dogs.  I did not speak to Aniela, because the silence seemed fraught with deep meaning,—­both our minds being full of the same subject.  When about half-way I said to Aniela,—­

“What a pleasant day it has been, has it not?”

“Yes.  I never heard such beautiful music before.”

“And yet you seemed not in your usual spirits, and though you will not tell me the cause, I notice every passing cloud on your face.”

“You were obliged to look after your guests.  You are very kind to trouble about me, but there is nothing the matter with me.”

“To-day as any other day I was occupied with you only, and as a proof of it let me tell you of what you were thinking to-day.”  And without waiting for permission, I went on at once:  “You thought I resembled somewhat the Latysz couple; you thought I had deceived you in speaking of the void around me; lastly, you thought that I had no need to ask for your friendship while I was seeking friendship elsewhere.  Was it not so?  Tell me the truth.”

Aniela replied with evident effort:  “If you insist upon knowing—­yes, perhaps it is so.  But I ought to be only glad of it.”

“What ought you be glad of?”

“Of your mutual friendship with Clara.”

“As to our friendship,—­I wish her well, that is all.  But Clara, like all other women, is indifferent to me.  Do you know why?”