adies, approached Irene and,
bending easily before her, kissed her hand.

"May one enter?" inquired he, indicating with his eyes the door
of an adjoining; chamber.

"I beg you to enter, mamma is in her study."

The inclination of head, and sound of Irene's voice, contained
only that measure of cordiality which was absolutely demanded by
politeness, but that was her way always and with every one. Cold
radiated from her, and such indifference that it was sometimes a
contemptuous disregard for people and things. But when Kranitski,
hat in hand, passed two drawing-rooms she followed him with her
glance, in which, besides disquiet, there was a kindly feeling,
and more, perhaps, a feeling of pity. She was accustomed from
childhood to see him; he was gentle, as ready as a slave to
render service, as ready as a friend to oblige; he noted the
wants not only of the lady of the house, but of each of her
children. He had the subdued manner and pliancy of people who do
not feel that they merit what they have, and are ever trembling
lest they lose it. He had, besides, the gift of reading
beautifully in various languages. For a number of years Irene
could not remember pleasanter evenings than those which, free
from society demands, she had passed in her mother's study when
Kranitski was present. Sometimes Cara and her governess took part
in these domestic gatherings; sometimes, also, though more and
more rarely, they were enlivened by the presence of Maryan, who,
in the intervals of reading, chaffed with his sister and mother,
and argued with Kranitski about various tendencies in taste and
literature. Most frequently, however, Cara was occupied with
lessons, and Maryan by society, and only she and Malvina, with
artistic work in hand, listened in silence and thoughtfully to
that resonant, manly voice, which rendered masterpieces of
thought and poetry with perfect appreciation and feeling. During
such evenings Irene was seized at moments by a dream of certain
grand solitudes, pure, surrounded by cordial warmth, remote from
the uproar of streets, the rustle of silks, the noise of vain
words, whose emptiness and falsehood she had measured; but
straightway she said to herself: "Painted pots, ideals! these
have no existence!" and she made a gesture, as if driving from
above her head a beautiful butterfly, feeling convinced that that
butterfly was merely a phantom. To-day, from minute observation,
the conjecture rose in her that someth