without moving, and looked out straight before her from under her knitted brows. I had never known such a look on her. Then she clasped her hands tightly, raised them to her lips, to her forehead, and suddenly pulling her fingers apart, she pushed back her hair behind her ears, tossed it, and with a sort of determination nodded her head, and slammed-to the window.
Three days later she met me in the garden. I was turning away, but she stopped me of herself.
'Give me your arm,' she said to me with her old affectionateness, 'it's a long while since we have had a talk together.'
I stole a look at her; her eyes were full of a soft light, and her face seemed as it were smiling through a mist.
'Are you still not well?' I asked her.
'No, that's all over now,' she answered, and she picked a small red rose. 'I am a little tired, but that too will pass off.'
'And will you be as you used to be again?' I asked.
Zinaïda put the rose up to her face, and I fancied the reflection of its bright petals had fallen on her cheeks. 'Why, am I changed?' she questioned me.
'Yes, you are changed,' I answered in a low voice.
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