not think there was any perceptible change in my
behavior; yet she perceived a change at once. To-day, when we looked
at the albums and were alone,--which happens pretty often, on purpose
I suppose,--she grew embarrassed and changed color. I saw at once she
wanted to say something, and did not dare. For a single moment the mad
thought flashed across my brain that she was about to confess her love
for me. But as quick as the thought, I remembered it was a Polish girl
I had before me. A mere chit of a girl--I beg her pardon, a young
princess,--would rather die than be the first to confess her love.
When asked she gives her assent rather as a favor. Besides, Aniela
very quickly corrected my mistake; suddenly closing the album she said
in a hesitating voice: "What is the matter with you, Leon? There is
something the matter, is there not?"

I began assuring her at once that there was nothing the matter with
me, and to laugh away her perturbation; but she only shook her head
and said: "I have seen that something was amiss these last two days. I
know that men like you may be easily offended, and I have asked myself
whether anything I might have done or said--" Her voice shook a
little, but she looked straight at me.

"I have not hurt you, have I?"

There was a moment I felt tempted to say, "If there is anything
wanting to my happiness it is you, Aniela, only you;" but a sudden
terror clutched me by the hair. Not terror of her, but of the
consequences that might follow. I took her hand, kissed it, and said
in the most cheerful voice I could assume, "You are a good and dear
girl; do not mind me,--there is nothing whatever the matter; besides,
you are our guest, and it is I who ought to see that you are
comfortable."

And I kissed again her hand, both hands in fact. All this could be
still put down to cousinly affection,--human nature is so mean that
the consciousness that there was still a door through which I could
escape lent me courage. I call this feeling mean for the very reason
that I am not responsible to anybody except to myself, and myself I
cannot deceive. Yet I feel that even to myself I shall not give a
strict account, because in so far as my relations to Aniela are
concerned I am carried away by my sensations. I still feel on my lips
the touch of her hand,--and my desires are simply without limit.
Sooner or later I shall myself close that door through which I could
still escape. But could I still escape? Yes, i