“There was only one who understood me, and he understood me wrongly.”

Miss Hilst belongs to the category of musical philosophers, which is all the more strange, as her mind is full of simplicity.  This caryatid has the limpid, innocent eyes of a child, and is unsophisticated and sincere like one.  She is surrounded by a great throng of admirers, who are attracted by her beauty, and more still by the nimbus that makes a woman touched by the hand of the Muses always a centre of attraction; nevertheless, not a breath has touched her fair fame.  Even the women speak well of her, for she disarms them by her invariable good humor and sincerity.  She is as gay as any street urchin, and I have seen her laughing as schoolgirls laugh, the tears running down her face, which would be considered bad form in anybody but an artist, who is a privileged person.  Hers, from a moral point of view, is a beautiful character, though beyond her art, she is not endowed with great intellectual gifts.  Laura, who, in the main, does not like her, hinted to me several times that the caryatid is in love with me.  I do not believe it; she might love me, perhaps, if I tried to make her.  One thing is certain, she likes me very much, and felt sympathy for me the first time we met.  I return the sentiment, and do not try to disturb her peace of mind.  When I meet a woman for the first time I look upon her, from old habit I suppose, as a possible conquest; it is the first instinct.  A second thought is quite different.  Generally speaking, women interest me in the way precious stones interest a jeweller who has retired from business.  Seeing a valuable gem, I say to myself it is worth having, and then I remember that I have sold out, and go on my way.

In spite of all that, I once, half in jest, urged her to go to Warsaw, and promised to escort her as honorary impresario.  I do not say that such a journey would be without charm.  I really intend going.  My aunt has given me her town house, and wants me to come over in order to take the property.  Besides, I always go to Warsaw for the races.  Who would believe that my aunt, a grave, serious-minded lady, devoted to the management of the estate, to prayer and benevolent schemes, had such a worldly weakness as horse-racing.  It is her one passion.  Maybe the knightly instincts which women inherit as well as men, find an outlet in this noble sport.  Our horses have been running for Heaven knows how many years,—­and are always beaten.  My aunt never fails to attend the races, and is an enthusiast about horses.  While her own horses are running, she stands on the back seat of her carriage, leaning on a stick, her bonnet usually awry, and watches for the result,—­then gets very angry, and for at least a month makes Chwastowski’s life a burden to him.  At present I hear she has reared a wonderful horse, and she bids me to come and witness the triumph of the black and orange colors.  I shall go.  There are other reasons too which make