The schoolmaster could not stand it any longer. What was the good of staying there? Of course, she wouldn't show herself any more. Such bad luck! Why on earth should that stupid, red-haired child just get worse now? Or was it only an excuse? Oh, of course, it was an excuse. She would be sitting upstairs in a corner, bowed down with shame and weeping, weeping so much that her beautiful figure--broad across the hips, a waist as slender as a birch, slim and still rounded--shook with it. Although the young fellow tried his utmost not to think of it, he could not help it; he saw her the whole time just as the old man had described her to him. He changed colour; one moment he felt hot, the next cold. Mr. Tiralla went on filling his glass with beer, gin, and Tokay, the one after the other, and he drank more than he was accustomed to in his absent-mindedness. He was thinking of nothing but her. He could not believe that he was to leave the house without seeing her once more. So he sat and sat, until the sky grew darker and darker and the early afternoon turned into pitch-dark night. At last he rose from his chair with despair in his heart. He had attained nothing of all he had meant to attain; he hadn't offered her any books, he hadn't secured her for a dance at the Gradewitz ball, he hadn't even inquired about the child, which had been his nominal reason for coming to Starydwór. He felt furious with Mr. Tiralla; he was to blame for everything. Then he bade him good night. Mr. Tiralla did not accompany him to the door--little Böhnke would be able to find it alone--so he [Pg 76] groped his way through the dark passage to the front door, reeling a little as he walked. Suddenly a warm hand grasped his, some one chuckled near him in the dark, and the servant's deep voice said half compassionately, half mockingly, "Did you find it slow with Pan Tiralla? I'm sorry. Pani is upstairs with little Rosa. If Pan Böhnke wants to say good night to her----" she pushed him in the direction of the stairs and disappeared in the dark, chuckling. Like a gnome, he thought--oh, no, like an angel. He was seized with a superstitious terror. Everything seemed so strange; the old house, the chuckling maid, the loud-voiced man, the beautiful woman. He began cursing all the drink he had had and cursing Mr. Tiralla. Oh, if only he had been as sober and as clear-headed as he generally was. The old staircase creaked under his feet. What would she say? Wouldn't she consider him intruding if he came up to her? But weren't those groans that he heard above the creaking of the stairs? That poor, beautiful woman! He must go to her. Where was she? Now he was at the top. Hark, wasn't that the child's voice?