It was her father. The other an antique person, a
roly-poly fellow who chuckled and quavered, was her uncle. Davos sat in
a drawing-room containing a grand pianoforte, a few chairs, and couches.
The floor was stained, and when a cluster of lights was brought by the
uncle, he noticed that only Chopin portraits hung on the walls. He
apologized for his intrusion--the music had lured him from the highroad.
"We are very musical," said the father.
"I should say so," reiterated his brother-in-law.
"Musical!" echoed Davos. "Do you call it by such an everyday phrase? I
heard the playing of a marvellous poet a moment ago." The two men looked
shyly at each other. She entered. He was formally presented.
"Monsieur Davos, this is Constantia Grabowska, my daughter. My name is
Joseph Grabowski; my late wife's brother, Monsieur Pelletier." Davos
was puzzled by the name, Constantia Grabowska! She sat before him,
dressed in black silk with crinoline; two dainty curls hung over her
ears; her profile, her colouring, were slightly Oriental, and in her
nebulous gray eyes with their greenish light there was eternal youth.
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