d Clara, with naive resignation.

Inwardly I was furious,--with myself, Sniatynski, and Clara. I am
neither so vain, foolish, nor mean that every conquest of that kind
should rejoice me; therefore felt annoyed at the thought that Clara
might love me, and nourish some baseless hopes. I knew she had some
kind of undefined feeling, which, given time and occasion, might
develop into something more lasting; but I had no idea this vague
feeling dared to wish or expect something. It suddenly struck me that
the announcement of her departure was prompted by a desire to find out
how I would receive the news. I received it very coolly. A love like
mine for Aniela ought to teach compassion; yet Clara's sadness and the
mention of her departure, not only did not move me, but seemed to me
an audacious flight of fancy and an insult to me.

Why? Not from any aristocratic notions; that is certain. I could
not account at once for the strange phenomenon; but now explain it
thus,--the feeling of belonging to Aniela is so strong and exclusive
that it seems to me that any other woman wanting but one pulsation of
my heart endeavors to steal something that is Aniela's property. This
explanation is sufficient for me. No doubt, by and by I shall bid
Clara good-by, and feel as friendly as ever towards her; but the
sudden announcement of her departure gave me a distaste for her. It is
only Aniela who may with impunity trample on my nerves. Never did I
look at Clara so critically and resentfully; for the first time
I became fully aware of the amplitude of her figure, the bright
complexion, the dark hair, and blue, somewhat protruding eyes, the
lips like ripe cherries,--in brief, her whole beauty reminded me of
the cheap chromo-lithographs of harem beauties in second-class hotels.
I left her in the worst of humors, and went straight to a book-shop to
select some books for Aniela.

For a week I had been thinking what to choose for her reading. I did
not wish to neglect anything, though I did not attach undue weight
to this, as it acts very slowly. Besides, I have noticed that to
our women, though their imagination is more developed than their
temperament, a book is always something unreal. If it falls even into
the hands of an exceptionally susceptible person, it creates in her
at the most an abstract world, that has no connection with real life
whatever. To almost none of them it occurs that ideas taken from books
can be applied to any practical p