My heart gave a bound of joy, mingled with trepidation; it was stilled again at once.
It was, as I presently found out, the voice of Smilowicz, a former pupil of Obojanski: an ugly little man, who makes people laugh a great deal, not by his wit, but by his queer, comical grimaces.
"I must begin by telling you quite frankly," he says, turning to me, "that at first sight I thought you hateful; you had all the outward appearance of a fine lady. It was only when the Professor had explained to me that you were an accountant and worked for your living, that my hatred changed into sympathy for you."
His hearty laugh infects me with a gaiety so artificial that it almost gives me pain.
"Your compliment, paid in so negative a form, I cannot doubt to be sincere; as such it is a novelty. But I have not the least wish to make my appearance symbolize the dreary lot of a woman who works."
Obojanski, somewhat annoyed, remarks: "Alas! that even the cleverest of her sex should have this little bit of vanity!"
I glance at his form, gracefully leaning back in his easy-chair, clad in a fine suit of
