He drew a deep, deep breath, and let her hands fall. "Tell me," he commanded, abruptly. She hesitated. "Have I not the right?" he exclaimed. "Yes, perhaps, but I am not sure. Father, I do not know myself how it has come about. I did not wish it, but I was forced into it, and perhaps it was the same with him. But his intentions are honorable." "We will hear of that later. Go on." She told, at first in confused, indistinct words, how she had met his eyes at the entrance into the town, and what a tumult of emotions his conduct had awakened in her the evening of the ball. But as she passed on to the conversation after Wiliszenski's reading, she overcame her fears, and she told everything as she knew it--the whole truth. He stood with his forehead pressed against the window, and listened quietly, interrupting her but once. As she was telling him of other meetings at Wroblewski's house, he asked suddenly: "And you did not observe you were always alone?" "No, I supposed it was a--" "A coincidence!" he said, mockingly, shaking his clenched fist at the ceiling. "But go on." He sank down in his arm-chair again, while she sat by him, and finished her story, not even suppressing the conversation of that day. "Father," she concluded, piteously, "I have never forgotten, and never can forget, how much I grieve you and Raphael. Therefore I can never be fully happy. But you are clever and good, and must see that I cannot help it." She knelt at his feet and clasped his knees. "Father, don't be angry with me!" He sat still for a long time without moving. Then he felt gently for her hands, and loosed them from his knees, rose, and, going to the window, looked into the street over which the twilight of a late autumn day was sinking. Now and then he muttered to himself: "And I, fool that I am, often bewailed your early death! It was good for you!" Then he said aloud: "Your mother--" Then he stopped again. He stood in that attitude, and it grew darker and darker in the room. Finally he pulled himself together, lit the candles on the table, and went to his child, who was still on her knees, her head resting against the chair. "Stand up!" he ordered, going up close to her. She obeyed. She attempted to look him in the eye, but could not, she was so shocked to see how suddenly old his face had grown. But his voice no longer quavered. "It is a heavy misfortune," he said. "I thank God with all my heart that he has not utterly undone us; but what he has sent is fearful enough. I am not blaming you. You ought not to have had any secrets from me; but you are so young, and he is handsome and a count. If I accuse you, I ought also to accuse myself. I ought to have considered the character of the people I was sending you among, and how their influence would affect you. I ought to have been more clever, as clever as my poor boy, whose heart would break if he knew of this. But he shall never know it--never!" She made a motion as if to speak.