After they had gone out, all were silent. Marynia had eyes as if roused from sleep; Vaskovski's hands were trembling. Bukatski dragged himself in to lunch; but, being ill, he could not excite conversation in any one. Svirski, strange to say, talked little while Marynia was sitting, and returned continually to the same subject; from time to time he repeated,-- "Yes, yes; whoever has not seen that can have no conception of it. That will remain." In the evening Pan Stanislav and Marynia went to see the sunset from Trinità dei Monti. The day ended very beautifully. The whole city was buried in a kind of hazy golden gleam; under their feet, far down in the valley, on the Piazza di Spagna, darkness was beginning, but a darkness yet lighted, in the mild tones of which irises and white lilies were visible among the flowers set out on both sides of the Via Condotti. In the whole picture there was great and undisturbed repose,--a kind of soothing announcement of night and sleep. Then the Piazza di Spagna began to sink more and more in the shade, but the Trinità was shining continually in purple. Pan Stanislav and Marynia felt this calmness reflected in themselves; they descended the giant stairs then with a wonderful feeling of peace in their souls. All the impressions of the day settled down in them in lines as great and calm as those twilight belts, which were still shining above them. "Knowest thou," said Pan Stanislav, "what I remember yet from childhood's years? That with us at home they always said the evening rosary together." And he looked with an inquiring glance into Marynia's eyes. "Oh, my Stas!" said she, with a voice trembling from emotion, "I did not dare to mention this--my best." "'Service of God,'--dost thou remember?" But she had said that formerly with such simplicity, and as a thing so self-evident, that she remembered nothing whatever about it. CHAPTER XXXVI. But Pan Stanislav was in permanent disfavor with Pani Osnovski. Meeting him at Svirski's, between one sitting and another, she spoke to him only in so far as good breeding and politeness demanded. He saw this perfectly, and asked himself sometimes, "What does that woman want of me?" but troubled himself little. He would have troubled himself still less if "that woman," instead of being eight and twenty, had been eight and fifty years of age; if she had been without those violet eyes and those cherry lips. And such is human nature that, in spite of the fact that he wanted nothing of her, and expected nothing, he could not refrain from thinking what might happen should he strive really for her favor, and how far would she be capable of going.