king with cold. "Come to-morrow."

I felt wretched at the thought of being left alone, irritated and
dissatisfied with myself and other people; and I, too, tried not
to look at the falling stars. "Stay another minute," I said to her,
"I entreat you."

I loved Genya. I must have loved her because she met me when I came
and saw me off when I went away; because she looked at me tenderly
and enthusiastically. How touchingly beautiful were her pale face,
slender neck, slender arms, her weakness, her idleness, her reading.
And intelligence? I suspected in her intelligence above the average.
I was fascinated by the breadth of her views, perhaps because they
were different from those of the stern, handsome Lida, who disliked
me. Genya liked me, because I was an artist. I had conquered her
heart by my talent, and had a passionate desire to paint for her
sake alone; and I dreamed of her as of my little queen who with me
would possess those trees, those fields, the mists, the dawn, the
exquisite and beautiful scenery in the midst of which I had felt
myself hopelessly solitary and useless.

"Stay another minute," I begged her. "I beseech you."

I took off my overcoat and put it over her chilly shoulders; afraid
of looking ugly and absurd in a man's overcoat, she laughed, threw
it off, and at that instant I put my arms round her and covered her
face, shoulders, and hands with kisses.

"Till to-morrow," she whispered, and softly, as though afraid of
breaking upon the silence of the night, she embraced me. "We have
no secrets from one another. I must tell my mother and my sister
at once. . . . It's so dreadful! Mother is all right; mother likes
you--but Lida!"

She ran to the gates.

"Good-bye!" she called.

And then for two minutes I heard her running. I did not want to go
home, and I had nothing to go for. I stood still for a little time
hesitating, and made my way slowly back, to look once more at the
house in which she lived, the sweet, simple old house, which seemed
to be watching me from the windows of its upper storey, and
understanding all about it. I walked by the terrace, sat on the
seat by the tennis ground, in the dark under the old elm-tree, and
looked from there at the house. In the windows of the top storey
where Misuce slept there appeared a bright light, which changed to
a soft green--they had covered the lamp with the shade. Shadows
began to move. . . . I was full of tenderness, peace, and satisfaction
wi