he has not the slightest inkling of what I feel—that I love him most of all.
To-day I was sorry for him—sorry for all those desires of his, doomed to burn themselves out, never any more to be kindled.
Acting on an impulse, I went up to him, knelt with one knee upon his, put my hands round his head, wonderfully soft and velvet-like to feel, and then, turning his face up, I gazed into those enchanting, nebulous eyes, and said laughingly:
"Oh! in Heaven's name, Witold, why must you talk about everything? You know well enough that this is not what you were made for, don't you? Pray remember that your one strong point is love."
And then, for the first time, I kissed him upon the lips, not waiting to be kissed by him.
He kissed me back again, but the kiss was cool, brotherly.
"I regret," he observed, "that you show me so little of your beautiful soul, and refuse to acknowledge mine to be of a kindred nature. Yet I understand so well your dreams of the Arctic plains that you possess, of your grottoes, glimmering green in the Northern Lights; of your boundless and ever peacefully
