He is talking with Martha's grandfather about this year's crops, and looking quite interested in the subject.
It is a cool windy autumn day. Clouds are floating close to the earth, rain is in the air, and no birds are seen. Along the woods stretch the fields, either already harrowed, or covered with dingy whitish stubble. Something has gone out of my life forever: I cannot get rid of the thought.
We three are riding together over the desolate plain. Janusz rides in front of us, playing acrobatic tricks on horseback, and really performing wonderful feats of agility.
But it is now ebb-tide with me. Those tight trousers, those raw leather boots of his—I hate them, and scorn myself for having let that sort of thing ever make any impression on me; assuredly there is nothing in all this that is worthy of scorn.
Autumn has come. That is all.
We come abreast upon the muddy highway, all three strangely sick at heart. In silence we ride on.
Latterly Janusz has altered very much. His face is pale; it is the face of a man lost
