The Count was not accustomed to have such an indulgent opponent; everybody else used to keep a strict eye on him except Mr. Tiralla. In his heart the gallant old Count pitied the latter's beautiful wife. Poor thing, to have such a fool of a husband. Mrs. Tiralla was like a flame, in spite of her white dress and her cheeks that never got red--hot, but never red--for she set fire to the whole ballroom. Crimson and white flags, that swayed incessantly backwards and forwards in the draught created by the dancers as they whirled past, had been fixed to the bare wooden partitions, through which the wind whistled straight from the plain. The withered garlands, [Pg 92] that had been there since the Sokol's[A] last entertainment, rustled softly as they hung from one flagstaff to the other. The boards on the floor were only loosely laid down, and moved up and down under the hopping and gliding of many feet. If a foot happened to stamp a little more than usual, or a couple to fall down with a crash, then clouds of dust would whirl up and obscure the light from the swinging paraffin lamp, round which twelve candles, fixed in a metal disc, were flickering. A stove roared in the corner. The wall behind it had been scorched by the heat, and in front a large iron-plated screen had been placed, in order to protect the women's dresses from the sparks that flew out of the open door. [Footnote A: A Polish gymnastic society.] The piano stood on a platform, which was now and then used as a stage; and there was a pianist from Gnesen, not at all a bad player, who was supported by a violin and a double-bass. The musicians played with a good deal of rhythm, a fiery rhythm that carried the dancers away. People danced well in Gradewitz. Schmielke's dancing was nothing special here, although it had been considered exceedingly good at home. The girls were as light as soap-bubbles; even stout Miss Trampel, the baker's daughter, and the stupid, snub-nosed Miss Musiëlak, the stationmaster's daughter, danced like feathers; still, they were not in very much request. Little Jadwiga, the rich mill-owner's daughter, who was wearing a brand-new pale blue cashmere frock, cut square in front, which left her neck bare as far as the freckles went, did not meet with as much success as could be expected from her dress, which the Gradewitz dressmaker had declared to be her masterpiece. And even Mariechen Rózycki, whose very red arms [Pg 93] and hands stuck out of a pink silk blouse, had to look on, while one man after another marched over to Mrs. Tiralla. It was a bitter blow.