Here Marynia became frightened at her own speech, and at this, what would "Stas" think; at the same time reminiscences had roused her. All this was reflected in her eyes as the dawn, and on her young face; and she was herself like the dawn. Bukatski looked at her as he would at some unknown newly discovered master-piece of the Venetian school; then he closed his eyes, and hid half of his small face in his enormous fantastic cravat, and whispered,-- "_Délicieuse!_" Then, thrusting forth his chin from his cravat, he said,-- "You are perfectly right." But the logical woman would not let herself be set aside by a compliment. "If I am right, you are not." "That is another matter. You are right because it becomes you; a woman in that case is always right." "Stas!" said Marynia, turning to her husband. But there was so much charm in the woman at that moment, that he also looked on her with delight, his eyes smiled, his nostrils moved with a quick motion; for a moment he covered her hand with his, and said,-- "Oh, child, child!" Then he inclined to her, and whispered,-- "If we were not in this hall, I would kiss those dear eyes and that mouth." And, speaking thus, Pan Stanislav made a great mistake, for at that moment it was not enough to feel the physical charm of Marynia, to be roused at the color of her face, her eyes, or her mouth, but it was necessary to feel the soul in her; to what an extent he did not feel it was shown by his fondling words, "O child, child!" She was for him at that moment only a charming child-woman, and he thought of nothing else. Just then coffee was brought. To end the conversation, Pan Stanislav said,-- "So Mashko has come out a lover, and that after marriage." Bukatski swallowed a cup of boiling coffee, and answered, "In this is the stupidity, that Mashko is the man, not in this,--that the love was after marriage. I have not said anything sensible. If I have, I beg pardon most earnestly, and promise not to do so a second time. I have burned my tongue evidently with the hot coffee! I drink it so hot because they tell me that it is good for headache; and my head aches, aches." Here Bukatski placed his palm on his neck and the back of his head, and blinked, remaining motionless for a few seconds. "I am talking and talking," said he, then, "but my head aches. I should have gone to my lodgings, but Svirski, the artist, is to come to me here. We are going to Florence together; he is a famous painter in water-colors, really famous. No one has brought greater force out of water-colors. But see, he is just coming!" In fact, Svirski, as if summoned by a spell, appeared in the hall, and began to look around for Bukatski. Espying him at last, he approached the table. He was a robust, short man, with hair as black as if he were an Italian. He had an ordinary face, but a wise, deep glance, and also mild. While walking, he swayed a little because of his wide hips.