m my aunt that she deems every
word I say an oracle. She is decidedly not without coquetry. To-day
I asked her what she wished for most in life. She answered, "To see
Rome;" then her eyelashes fell, and she looked indescribably pretty.
She sees that I like her, and it makes her happy. Her coquetry is
charming, because it comes straight from a delighted heart, and tries
to please the chosen object. I have not the slightest doubt that her
heart is fluttering towards me, as a moth flutters into the candle.
Poor child! she feels the elders have given their mute consent, and
she obeys only too willingly. I can watch the process from hour to
hour.

Perhaps I ought to inquire of myself, "If you do not want to marry
her, why are you trying to make her love you?" But I do not choose to
answer that question. I feel at peace here, and restful! After
all, what is it I am doing? I try not to appear more foolish or
disagreeable or less courteous than I am by nature, that is all.

Aniela appeared to-day at breakfast in a loose sailor-dress,
which only just betrayed the outline of her shape, and she looked
bewitching. Her eyes were still full of dreaminess and sleep. It is
something wonderful what an impression she is making on me.

31 January.

My aunt is giving an entertainment in honor of Aniela. I am
paying visits and leaving cards right and left. I called upon the
Sniatynskis, and sat with them for a long time, because I feel there
at home. Sniatynski and his wife are always wrangling with each other,
but their life is different from that of most other married people.
As a rule, it happens when there is one cloak, each tries to get
possession of it; these two dispute because he wishes her to have
it, and she wants it all for him. I like them immensely,--it is so
refreshing to see there is still happiness out of novels. With all
that, he is so clever; as sensitive as a Stradivarius violin, and
quite conscious of his happiness. He wanted it, and has got it. I envy
him. I always used to like his conversation. They offered me some
black coffee; it is only at literary people's houses one can get such
coffee. He asked me what I thought of Warsaw after so long an absence.
There was also some talk about the ball, especially from the lady's
part. She seems to guess something about my aunt's plans, and wants to
have one of her rosy fingers in the pie,--especially as she comes from
the same part of the country as Aniela.

We touched