Aniela, my cousin!  No wonder I did not recognize her.  The last time I saw her, some ten or eleven years ago at Ploszow, she wore a short frock and pink stockings.  I remember the midges had stung her about the legs, and she stamped on the ground like a little pony.  How could I dream that these white shoulders, this breast covered with violets, this pretty face with the dark eyes, in short, this girl in the full bloom of maidenhood, was the same as the little wagtail on thin feet I had known formerly.  How pretty she had grown; a fine butterfly had come from that chrysalis.  I renewed my greeting very heartily.  Afterwards when the Sniatynskis had left us she told me that my aunt and her mother had sent her to fetch me.  I offered my arm and we went across the room.

All at once it burst in upon me.  It was she, Aniela, my aunt had in her mind.  That then was the secret, the surprise meant for me.  My aunt always used to be fond of her, and troubled herself not a little over Pani P.’s financial difficulties.  I only wondered why these ladies were not stopping with my aunt; but I did not ponder over it long; I preferred to look at Aniela, who naturally interested me more than the average girl.  As we had to make our way to the other end of the room and the crush was great, I had ample time for conversation and scrutiny.  Fashion this year has it that gloves should be worn halfway up the elbow, so I noticed that the arm which rested on mine had a slightly dusky shade, covered as it was with a light down.  And yet she could not be called a brunette.  Her hair is a light brown with a gleam of bronze.  Her eyes are light too, but appear dark, shaded as they are by long eyelashes; the eyebrows, on the contrary, are dark and very pretty.  The characteristic of this little head with the low brow is that exuberance of hair, eyebrows, eyelashes, and that down, which on the face is very slight.  This at some future time may spoil her beauty, but at present she is so young that it points only to an exuberance of organism, and shows that she is not a doll, but a woman full of warm, active life.

I do not deny that, fastidious as are my nerves and not easily thrilled, I fell under a spell.  She is my type exactly.  My aunt, who, if she ever heard about Darwin would call him a wicked writer, has unconsciously adopted his theory of natural selection.  Yes, she is my type.  They have baited the hook this time with a dainty morsel.

An electric current seemed to pass from her arm into mine.  Besides I noticed that she too seemed pleased with me, and that naturally raises one’s spirits.  My scrutiny from an artistic point of view proved highly satisfactory.  There are faces that seem to be a translation from music or poetry into human shape.  Such a face is Aniela’s.  There is nothing commonplace about it.  As children are inoculated for small-pox so the upper classes inoculate modesty in their girls; there is something so very innocent in this face, but through that very innocence peeps out a warm temperament.  What a combination!—­as if some one said, “An innocent Satan!”