FOR some months we are in Warsaw.
I have fitted up a splendid studio. We visit the Ostrynskis rather frequently. He has sold “The Kite,” and is now “President of the Society for Distributing Barley Grits to Laborers out of Employment.” Nothing can give an idea of his lordliness or the gratitude with which he is surrounded. He pats me on the shoulder and says to me: “Well, benefactor!” He patronizes literary talents also, and receives on Wednesdays.
She is as beautiful as a dream. They have no children.