"I have heard," said Pan Stanislav to him, "that in three days you will be our associate." "Yes, Pan Principal," answered the young man; "or rather, I shall serve in the office." "But give peace to the 'principal,'" said Pan Stanislav, laughing. "With us it is not the custom to use the words 'grace,' or 'principal' unless perchance such a title would please my wife by giving her importance in her own eyes. But listen, Pani Principal_ess_," said he, turning to Marynia, "would it please thee to be called principal_ess_? It would be a new amusement." Zavilovski was confused; but he laughed too, when Marynia answered,-- "No; for it seems to me that a principal_ess_ ought to wear an enormous cap like this" (here she showed with her hands how big), "and I cannot endure caps." It grew pleasanter for Zavilovski in the joyous kindness of those people; but he was confused again when Marynia said,-- "You are an old acquaintance of mine. I have read nothing of late, for we have just returned home; has anything appeared while we were gone?" "No, Pani," answered he; "I occupy myself with that as Pan Bigiel does with music,--in free moments, and for my own amusement." "I do not believe this," said Marynia. And she was right not to believe, for it was not true at all. Zavilovksi's reply was lacking also in candor, for he wished to let it be known that he desired beyond all to pass as the correspondent of a commercial house, and to be considered an employee, not a poet. He gave a title to Bigiel and Pan Stanislav, not through any feeling of inferiority, but to show that when he had undertaken office work he considered it as good as any other, that he accommodated himself to his position, and would do so in the future. There was in this also something else. Zavilovski, though young, had observed how ridiculous people are, who, when they have written one or two little poems, pose as seers, and insist on being considered such. His great self-esteem trembled before the fear of the ridiculous; hence he fell into the opposite extreme, and was almost ashamed of his poetry. Recently, when suffering great want, this feeling became almost a deformity, and the least reference by any one to the fact that he was a poet brought him to suppressed anger.