seat, far enough away not
to hear them. I saw the light-green shadow that the tree cast upon
her, there at the edge of the forest's violet mystery.

"And I can still hear the flies buzzing in that Lombardy summer over
the winding river which unfolded its charms as we walked along the
banks."

"The greatest impression I ever had of noonday sunlight," he continued,
"was in London, in a museum. An Italian boy in the dress of his
country, a model, was standing in front of a picture which represented
a sunlight effect on a Roman landscape. The boy held his head
stretched out. Amid the immobility of the indifferent attendants, and
in the dampness and drabness of a London day, this Italian boy radiated
light. He was deaf to everything around him, full of secret sunlight,
and his hands were almost clasped. He was praying to the divine
picture."

"We saw Carpi again," said Anna. "We had to pass through it by chance
in November. It was very cold. We wore all our furs, and the river
was frozen."

"Yes, and we walked on the ice."

He paused for a moment, then asked:

"Why are certain memories imperishable?"

He buried his face in his nervous hands and sighed:

"Why, oh, why?"

"Our oasis," Anna said, to assist him in his memories, or perhaps
because she shared in the intoxication of reviving them, "was the
corner where the lindens and acacias were on your estate in the
government of Kiev. One whole side of the lawn was always strewn with
flowers in summer and leaves in winter."

"I can still see my father there," he said. "He had a kind face. He
wore a great cloak of shaggy cloth, and a felt cap pulled down over his
ears. He had a large white beard, and his eyes watered a little from
the cold."

"Why," he wondered after a pause, "do I think of my father that way and
no other way? I do not know, but that is the way he will live in me.
That is the way he will not die."

. . . . .

The day was declining. The woman seemed to stand out in greater relief
against the other two and become more and more beautiful.

I saw the man's silhouette on the faded curtains, his back bent, his
head shaking as in a palsy and his neck strained and emaciated.

With a rather awkward movement he drew a case of cigarettes from his
pocket and lit a cigarette.

As the eager little light rose and spread like a glittering mask, I saw
his ravaged features. But when he started to smoke in the twilight,
all you could see was