maidens, with their tiny brains. . . . Well, if you want to, go,”
“No, Jiříček, don’t be angry, I shan’t go. I meant it for your own good. You look bilious, and you are thin. Believe me, Italy did not do you any good.”
“Oh, leave me alone with your care of me! Thin! Do you expect me always to be well, until I give up the ghost?”
“My Jiříček.” His aunt wrung her hands, and two large tears glistened in her dim eyes. She shook her head and went out.
This nettled Jiří a little. Thus frequently ended their conversations. He felt pity for the good old soul, and often a kindly word stood on his lips, but was choked in his throat by some customary inconsiderateness. Perchance it was the fear lest he should suddenly find himself in a ridiculous, stupid attitude of sentimentality.
So he waved his hand, arose, and washed himself, dressed himself, combed his hair for
