feelings had ever attracted her, so far as he could remember; hence the solemnity of the reception, to which he was forced to yield, was immensely disagreeable to him. Pan Stanislav had not the least family feeling for Plavitski. “This monkey,” thought he, “is blessing me instead of talking money;” and he was seized by a certain indignation, which might help him to explain matters clearly.
“Now sit down, dear boy,” said Plavitski, “and be as if in thy own house.”
Pan Stanislav took a seat, and began, “Dear uncle, for me it is very pleasant to visit uncle. I should have done so surely, even without business; but uncle knows that I have come also on that affair which my mother—”
Here the old man laid his hand on Pan Stanislav’s knee suddenly. “But hast thou drunk coffee?” asked he.
“I have,” answered Pan Stanislav, driven from his track.
“Marynia goes to church early. I beg pardon, too, that I have not given thee my room; but I am old, I am accustomed to sleep here. This is my nest.” Then, with a circular sweep of the hand, he directed attention to the chamber.
Unconsciously Pan Stanislav let his eyes follow the motion of the hand. On a time this chamber had been to him a ceaseless temptation, for in it had hung the arms of Plavitski. The only change in it was the wall, which in the old time was rose-colored, and represented, on an endless number of squares, young shepherdesses, dressed à la Watteau, and catching fish with hooks. At the window stood a toilet-table with a white cover, and a mirror in a silver frame. On the table was a multitude of little pots, vials, boxes, brushes, combs, nail files, etc. At one side, in the corner, was a table with pipes and pipe-stems with amber mouth-pieces; on the wall, above the sofa, was the head of a wild boar, and under it two double-barrelled guns, a hunting-bag, horns, and, in general, the weapons of hunting; in the depth was a table with papers, open shelves with a certain number of books. Everywhere the place was full of old furniture more or less needed and ornamental, but indicating that the occupant of the chamber was the centre around which everything turned in that house, and that he cared greatly for himself. In one word, it was the chamber of an old single man,—an egotist full of petty anxiety for his personal comfort, and full of pretensions. Pan Stanislav did not need long reflection to divine that Plavitski would not give up his chamber for anything, nor to any man.
But the hospitable host inquired further, “Was it comfortable enough for thee? How didst thou spend the night?”
“Perfectly; I rose late.”
“But thou wilt stay a week or so with me?”
Pan Stanislav, who was very impulsive, sprang up from his chair.
“Doesn’t uncle know that I have business in Warsaw, and a partner, who at present is doing all our work alone? I must go at the earliest; and to-day I should like to finish the business on which I have come.”
To this Plavitski answered with a certain cordial dignity, “No, my boy. To-day is Sunday; and besides, family feeling should go before business. To-day I greet thee, and receive thee as a blood relative; to-morrow, if thou wish, appear as a creditor. That is it. To-day my Stas has come to me, the son of my Anna. Thus will it be till to-morrow; thus should it be, Stas. This is said to thee by thy eldest relative, who loves thee, and for whom thou shouldst do this.”
Pan Stanislav frowned a little, but after a while he answered, “Let it be so till to-morrow.”
“Anna spoke through thee then. Dost smoke a pipe?”
“No, only cigarettes.”
“Believe me, thou doest ill. But I have cigarettes for guests.”
Further conversation was interrupted by the rattle of an equipage at the entrance.
“That is Marynia, who has come from early Mass,” said Plavitski.
Pan Stanislav looked out through the window, and saw a young lady in a straw hat stepping out of the equipage.
“Hast made the acquaintance of Marynia?” asked Plavitski.
“I had the pleasure yesterday.”
“She is a dear child. I need not tell thee that I live only for her—”
At that moment the door opened, and a youthful voice asked, “May I come in?”
“Come in, come in; Stas is here!” answered Plavitski.
Marynia entered the chamber quickly, with her hat hanging by ribbons over her shoulder; and when she had embraced her father, she gave her hand to Pan Stanislav. In her rose-colored muslin, she looked exceedingly graceful and pretty. There was about her something of the character of Sunday, and with it the freshness of that morning, which was bright and calm. Her hair had been ruffled a little by her hat; her cheeks were blooming; and youth was breathing from her person. To Pan Stanislav, she seemed more joyous and more shapely than the previous evening.
“High Mass will be a little later to-day,” said she to her father; “for immediately after Mass the canon went to the mill to prepare Pani Siatkovski; she is very ill. Papa will have half an hour yet.”
“That is well,” said Plavitski; “during that time thou wilt become more nearly acquainted with Stas. I tell thee, drop for drop like Anna! But thou hast never seen her. Remember, too, Marynia, that he will be our creditor to-morrow, if he wishes; but to-day he is only our relative and guest.”
“Very well,” answered the young lady; “we shall have a pleasant Sunday.”
“You went to sleep so late yesterday,” said Pan Stanislav, “and to-day you were at early Mass.”
She answered merrily, “The cook and I go to early Mass that we may have time afterward to think of dinner.”
“I forgot to mention,” said Pan Stanislav, “that I bring you salutations from Pani Emilia Hvastovski.”
“I have not seen Emilia for a year and a half, but we write to each other often. She is about to visit Reichenhall, for the sake of her little daughter.”
“She was ready to start when I saw her.”
“But how is the little girl?”
“She is in her twelfth year; she has grown beyond measure, and is pale. It does not seem that she is very healthy.”
“Do you visit Emilia often?”
“Rather often. She is almost my only acquaintance in Warsaw. Besides, I like Pani Emilia very much.”
“Tell me, my boy,” inquired Plavitski, taking a pair of fresh gloves from the table, and putting them into a breast-pocket, “what is thy particular occupation in Warsaw?”
“I am what is called an ‘affairist;’ I have a commission house in company with a certain Bigiel. I speculate in wheat and sugar, sometimes in timber; in anything that gives profit.”
“I have heard that thou art an engineer?”
“I have my specialty. But on my return I could not find occupation at any factory, and I began at mercantile transactions, all the more
