xquisite weather. The villa was in a great park not far
from the station. At the beginning of an avenue, about twenty paces
from the gates, Yulia Sergeyevna was sitting under a broad, spreading
poplar, waiting for her guests. She had on a light, elegant dress
of a pale cream colour trimmed with lace, and in her hand she had
the old familiar parasol. Yartsev greeted her and went on to the
villa from which came the sound of Sasha's and Lida's voices, while
Laptev sat down beside her to talk of business matters.

"Why is it you haven't been for so long?" she said, keeping his
hand in hers. "I have been sitting here for days watching for you
to come. I miss you so when you are away!"

She stood up and passed her hand over his hair, and scanned his
face, his shoulders, his hat, with interest.

"You know I love you," she said, and flushed crimson. "You are
precious to me. Here you've come. I see you, and I'm so happy I
can't tell you. Well, let us talk. Tell me something."

She had told him she loved him, and he could only feel as though
he had been married to her for ten years, and that he was hungry
for his lunch. She had put her arm round his neck, tickling his
cheek with the silk of her dress; he cautiously removed her hand,
stood up, and without uttering a single word, walked to the villa.
The little girls ran to meet him.

"How they have grown!" he thought. "And what changes in these three
years. . . . But one may have to live another thirteen years, another
thirty years. . . . What is there in store for us in the future?
If we live, we shall see."

He embraced Sasha and Lida, who hung upon his neck, and said:

"Grandpapa sends his love. . . . Uncle Fyodor is dying. Uncle Kostya
has sent a letter from America and sends you his love in it. He's
bored at the exhibition and will soon be back. And Uncle Alyosha
is hungry."

Then he sat on the verandah and saw his wife walking slowly along
the avenue towards the house. She was deep in thought; there was a
mournful, charming expression in her face, and her eyes were bright
with tears. She was not now the slender, fragile, pale-faced girl
she used to be; she was a mature, beautiful, vigorous woman. And
Laptev saw the enthusiasm with which Yartsev looked at her when he
met her, and the way her new, lovely expression was reflected in
his face, which looked mournful and ecstatic too. One would have
thought that he was seeing her for the first time in his life. And
whil