I wonder what his affairs are.  I forgot to ask whether he is at Warsaw; most likely he is, as he goes there every winter.  As to his business, it may be very magnificent, but I doubt whether it be on a solid basis.  I am not a speculator, and could not for the life of me transact a stock-exchange affair; but I am shrewd enough to know it.  Besides I am a close observer, and quick to draw conclusions.  Therefore I do not believe in noblemen with a genius for speculation.  I am afraid Kromitzki’s is neither an inherited nor innate quality, but a neurosis driving him into a certain direction.  I have seen examples of that kind.  Now and then blind fortune favors the nobleman-speculator, and he accumulates wealth; but I have not seen one who did not come to grief before he died.

Capacities such as these are either inherited or acquired by early training.  Chwastowski’s boys will be able to do something in that way because their father lost by accident all his fortune, and they have to make a fresh start.  But he who with ready capital, without commercial tradition or professional knowledge, embarks upon commerce, is bound to come to grief.  Speculation cannot be based upon illusions, and there is too much of that in the speculations of our noblemen.  Upon the whole, I wish Pan von Kromitzki every luck!

14 February.

Pax! pax! pax!  The painful impression has vanished.  What keen perceptions Aniela has!  I endeavored to be cheerful, though I felt out of spirits, and I do 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.”