intently their faces, their clothes, and their smiles
and came to the painful conclusion that these ladies could not know
that there were other people who suffered, wept, and were hungry.
But later Janina began to reason that she herself was dressed in the
same way as these other women; that there may be among them others
in the same plight as she, and that perhaps unknowingly they passed
her on the way, hungry and desperate, hurling the same glances at
other passers-by that she did. She tried to distinguish the faces of
such sufferers in the multitude, but could not. All appeared to be
satisfied and happy.

Then, something like the triumph of her own ascendancy over this
well-dressed and well-fed multitude lit up Janina's face. She felt
herself to be far superior to this world of everyday mortals.

"I have an idea, an aim!" she thought. "What do they live for? What
is their object in life?" she would often ask herself. And unable to
answer that question, Janina would smile pityingly at the emptiness
of their existence.

"A race of butterflies that knows not whence, nor why, nor to what
end their life has been given them!" she whispered, sating herself
to her heart's content with that silent scorn of people that was
growing to abnormal proportions in her.

Cabinska, Janina now hated with her whole soul, for although Pepa
always treated her with a sugary affability, she never paid her for
Yadzia's piano lessons, taking advantage of Janina's situation and
abilities with a hypocritical smile of friendliness. Janina could
not sever relations with her, for she felt distinctly that behind
that mask of politeness that Pepa wore there was hidden a fury who
would not forgive her that. Furthermore, she hated Cabinska as a
woman, a mother, and an actress. She had come to know her well, and
moreover, in her present period of continual strain and struggle,
she had either to love or hate someone immensely. Janina did not
love anyone as yet, but already she hated.

"Do you know it is hardly believable that such an incompetent judge
as the directress should herself assign the roles for all our
plays!" she once remarked to Wladek greatly embittered by the fact
that she had been ignored in the selection of the cast for an old
melodramatic caricature entitled Martin, the Foundling.

"It is too bad that you did not ask her for a role for, as you see,
the director can do nothing," said Wladek.

"Quite true! That's a good idea! I'l