iatynska
burst out laughing and said, "But he does not recognize you; it is
Aniela P."

Aniela, my cousin! No wonder I did not recognize her. The last time
I saw her, some ten or eleven years ago at Ploszow, she wore a short
frock and pink stockings. I remember the midges had stung her about
the legs, and she stamped on the ground like a little pony. How could
I dream that these white shoulders, this breast covered with violets,
this pretty face with the dark eyes, in short, this girl in the full
bloom of maidenhood, was the same as the little wagtail on thin feet
I had known formerly. How pretty she had grown; a fine butterfly
had come from that chrysalis. I renewed my greeting very heartily.
Afterwards when the Sniatynskis had left us she told me that my aunt
and her mother had sent her to fetch me. I offered my arm and we went
across the room.

All at once it burst in upon me. It was she, Aniela, my aunt had in
her mind. That then was the secret, the surprise meant for me. My aunt
always used to be fond of her, and troubled herself not a little over
Pani P.'s financial difficulties. I only wondered why these ladies
were not stopping with my aunt; but I did not ponder over it long; I
preferred to look at Aniela, who naturally interested me more than the
average girl. As we had to make our way to the other end of the
room and the crush was great, I had ample time for conversation and
scrutiny. Fashion this year has it that gloves should be worn halfway
up the elbow, so I noticed that the arm which rested on mine had a
slightly dusky shade, covered as it was with a light down. And yet she
could not be called a brunette. Her hair is a light brown with a gleam
of bronze. Her eyes are light too, but appear dark, shaded as they are
by long eyelashes; the eyebrows, on the contrary, are dark and very
pretty. The characteristic of this little head with the low brow is
that exuberance of hair, eyebrows, eyelashes, and that down, which
on the face is very slight. This at some future time may spoil her
beauty, but at present she is so young that it points only to an
exuberance of organism, and shows that she is not a doll, but a woman
full of warm, active life.

I do not deny that, fastidious as are my nerves and not easily
thrilled, I fell under a spell. She is my type exactly. My aunt, who,
if she ever heard about Darwin would call him a wicked writer, has
unconsciously adopted his theory of natural selection. Yes, she is m