ed-up
collar of her coat, which prevented her moving her head freely, and
the whole of her thin, graceful figure, with her skirts tucked up
on account of the dew, touched him.

"Good heavens! she is grown up," he said. "When I went away from
here last, five years ago, you were still a child. You were such a
thin, longlegged creature, with your hair hanging on your shoulders;
you used to wear short frocks, and I used to tease you, calling you
a heron. . . . What time does!"

"Yes, five years!" sighed Tanya. "Much water has flowed since then.
Tell me, Andryusha, honestly," she began eagerly, looking him in
the face: "do you feel strange with us now? But why do I ask you?
You are a man, you live your own interesting life, you are somebody
. . . . To grow apart is so natural! But however that may be, Andryusha,
I want you to think of us as your people. We have a right to that."

"I do, Tanya."

"On your word of honour?"

"Yes, on my word of honour."

"You were surprised this evening that we have so many of your
photographs. You know my father adores you. Sometimes it seems to
me that he loves you more than he does me. He is proud of you. You
are a clever, extraordinary man, you have made a brilliant career
for yourself, and he is persuaded that you have turned out like
this because he brought you up. I don't try to prevent him from
thinking so. Let him."

Dawn was already beginning, and that was especially perceptible
from the distinctness with which the coils of smoke and the tops
of the trees began to stand out in the air.

"It's time we were asleep, though," said Tanya, "and it's cold,
too." She took his arm. "Thank you for coming, Andryusha. We have
only uninteresting acquaintances, and not many of them. We have
only the garden, the garden, the garden, and nothing else. Standards,
half-standards," she laughed. "Aports, Reinettes, Borovinkas, budded
stocks, grafted stocks. . . . All, all our life has gone into the
garden. I never even dream of anything but apples and pears. Of
course, it is very nice and useful, but sometimes one longs for
something else for variety. I remember that when you used to come
to us for the summer holidays, or simply a visit, it always seemed
to be fresher and brighter in the house, as though the covers had
been taken off the lustres and the furniture. I was only a little
girl then, but yet I understood it."

She talked a long while and with great feeling. For some reason the
ide