They had another trip of four to the catacombs of St. Calixtus, for Pan Stanislav wished to repay politeness with politeness,--that is, a carriage with a carriage. But this trip did not bring reconciliation; they only conversed so far as not to call attention to themselves. At last this began to anger Pan Stanislav. In fact, Pani Osnovski's bearing developed a special relation between them, unpleasant in a way, but known only to them, hence something between them exclusively,--a kind of secret, to which no one else was admitted. Pan Stanislav considered that all this would end with the work on her portrait; but though the face had been finished some time, there remained many little details, for which the presence of the charming model was indispensable. Even for the simple reason that Svirski did not wish to lose time, it happened that when Pan Stanislav and his wife came, the Osnovskis were in the studio. Sometimes they stopped a little for greeting and a short talk touching yesterday's impressions; sometimes Osnovski was sent by his wife on an errand, or for some news. In that event he went out first, leaving the carriage for her before the studio. And it happened once that when Marynia had taken her place for a sitting, Pani Osnovski had not gone yet; after a while, learning that Marynia had been at the theatre the evening before, she, while putting on her hat and gloves before the mirror, inquired about singers and the opera, then, turning to Pan Stanislav, she said,-- "And now, I pray you, conduct me to the carriage." She threw on her wrap, and began to look for the ribbons sewn behind to the lining, so as to fasten it around her waist, but she stopped suddenly at the entrance,-- "I cannot find the ribbons because I have my gloves on; take pity on me." Pan Stanislav had to look for the ribbons, but in doing so he was forced to put his arm almost around her; after a moment the brewing of desire poured about him, all the more since she bent toward him, and the warmth of her face and body struck him. "But why are you angry with me?" inquired she, in an undertone; "that is bad. I am in such need of friendly souls. What have I done to you?" He found the ribbons, recovered himself, and with that somewhat coarse satisfaction of a rude man, who desires to use his triumph, and to signify that he has not yielded, answered simply, with an impertinence,-- "You have done nothing to me, and you can do nothing." But she repulsed the impoliteness, as if it were a ball at tennis. "Because sometimes I notice persons so little that I hardly see them." They went in silence to the carriage. "But is it that way?" thought Pan Stanislav, returning to the studio; "a man might advance there as far as he pleased;" and a quiver passed through him. "As far as he pleased," repeated he.