paradise but windows, terraces, and little squares with
tables and waiters black coats. There is a park such as you find
now in every watering-place abroad. And the dark, motionless, silent
foliage of the palms, and the bright yellow sand in the avenue, and
the bright green seats, and the glitter of the braying military
horns--all this sickened me in ten minutes! And yet one is obliged
for some reason to spend ten days, ten weeks, there!

Having been dragged reluctantly from one of these watering-places
to another, I have been more and more struck by the inconvenient
and niggardly life led by the wealthy and well-fed, the dulness and
feebleness of their imagination, the lack of boldness in their
tastes and desires. And how much happier are those tourists, old
and young, who, not having the money to stay in hotels, live where
they can, admire the view of the sea from the tops of the mountains,
lying on the green grass, walk instead of riding, see the forests
and villages at close quarters, observe the customs of the country,
listen to its songs, fall in love with its women. . . .

While I was sitting in the park, it began to get dark, and in the
twilight my Ariadne appeared, elegant and dressed like a princess;
after her walked Lubkov, wearing a new loose-fitting suit, bought
probably in Vienna.

"Why are you cross with me?" he was saying. "What have I done to
you?"

Seeing me, she uttered a cry of joy, and probably, if we had not
been in the park, would have thrown herself on my neck. She pressed
my hands warmly and laughed; and I laughed too and almost cried
with emotion. Questions followed, of the village, of my father,
whether I had seen her brother, and so on. She insisted on my looking
her straight in the face, and asked if I remembered the gudgeon,
our little quarrels, the picnics. . . .

"How nice it all was really!" she sighed. "But we're not having a
slow time here either. We have a great many acquaintances, my dear,
my best of friends! To-morrow I will introduce you to a Russian
family here, but please buy yourself another hat." She scrutinised
me and frowned. "Abbazzia is not the country," she said; "here one
must be _comme il faut_."

Then we went to the restaurant. Ariadne was laughing and mischievous
all the time; she kept calling me "dear," "good," "clever," and
seemed as though she could not believe her eyes that I was with
her. We sat on till eleven o'clock, and parted very well satisfied
both