Had none of them noticed how rude that was of Mr. Tiralla? Böhnke's blood boiled. He, the schoolmaster, whose mission it was to train the young--he, the only one there who could lay claim to any education, he was to stand that? "_Dalej_, _dalej!_" the peasant had shouted at him, as if he were his stableboy or his farm horse. Was he to put up with that? Was he really obliged to put up with it? No, no, no! The slim-looking schoolmaster was on the point of jumping up from his seat, but he got no further. He had again caught a glance from Mrs. Tiralla, and he had understood what those black eyes were saying to him. His fury subsided as he remained quietly in his place, but deep down in his heart there was born a hatred for Mr. Tiralla. The dancing recommenced after supper, but the [Pg 100] feet did not trip as lightly as before, and they did not always agree; for when the man's foot went to the left, his partner's wanted to go to the right. The dancers also fell down more frequently. The boards shook, and the clouds of dust became thicker and thicker. The ballroom was gloomy and oppressive. Mrs. Tiralla's dress no longer flew about as it had done during the first part of the evening. She was standing in the cloak-room with Mariechen Rózycki, who was sobbing bitterly, whilst old Piasecka, the attendant, whose business it was also to carry "In Memoriam" cards round, was busily rubbing her. "Oh, my pink blouse!" wailed the girl, "my beautiful blouse!" The forester's pupil, the idiot, had poured a whole glass of beer down the front of it, when she was tenderly leaning against him just before they left the table. She was beside herself with grief. "You can send it to Spindler in Berlin," said Mrs. Tiralla consolingly. "There is also a very good dry cleaner in Posen. Why, child!" she exclaimed, putting her finger under the girl's chin and raising her face, that was quite swollen with crying, "surely you aren't crying for the sake of a blouse?" All at once it seemed so infinitely futile to cry on account of a spoilt blouse. Mrs. Tiralla had quite forgotten that she also had shed tears on account of her hair just before she had left home. She felt so much more unhappy now, really so miserable. She would have liked to stop up her ears so as not to hear that twanging music. The dancing disgusted her. She had never gone to a dance as a child. What would her priest have said if he had seen her that evening? Father Szypulski was not so strict; but she would be strict with herself. She wouldn't go into the ballroom [Pg 101] again, she would drive home and sit by Rosa's bed and be her guardian angel. Perhaps she would then see some of those wonderful things that had been revealed to the child. She would pray for it, pray for happy dreams. She longed so ardently, so impatiently for happiness.