Yourii sauntered through the garden. Lost in his thoughts, he gazed at the sky, at the green and yellow leaves, and the shining water, as if he were looking on them all for the last time, and must fix them in his memory so as never to forget them. He felt vague sorrow at his heart, for it seemed as though with every moment something precious was passing away from him that could never be recalled; his youth that had brought him no joy; his place as an active sharer in the great and useful work upon which all his energies had once been concentrated. Yet why he should have thus lost ground he could not tell. He was firmly convinced that he possessed latent powers that should revolutionize the world, and a mind far broader in its outlook than that of anyone else; but he could not explain why he had this conviction, and he would have been ashamed to admit the fact even to his most intimate friend. “Ah! well,” he thought, gazing at the red and yellow reflections of the foliage in the stream, “perhaps what I do is the wisest and the best. Death ends it all, however one may have lived or tried to live. Oh! there comes Lialia,” he murmured, as he saw his sister approaching. “Happy Lialia! She lives like a butterfly, from day to day, wanting nothing, and troubled by nothing. Oh! if I could live as she does.” Yet this was only just a passing thought, for in reality he would on no account have wished to exchange his own spiritual tortures for the feather-brain existence of a Lialia. “Yourii! Yourii!” she exclaimed in a shrill voice though she was not more than three paces distant from him. Laughing roguishly, she handed him a little rose-coloured missive. Yourii suspected something. “From whom?” he asked, sharply, “From Sinotschka Karsavina,” said Lialia, shaking her finger at him, significantly. Yourii blushed deeply. To receive through his sister a little pink, scented letter like this seemed utterly silly; in fact ridiculous. It positively annoyed him. Lialia, as she walked beside him, prattled in sentimental fashion about his attachment to Sina, just as sisters will, who are intensely interested in their brothers’ love-affairs. She said how fond she was of Sina, and how delighted she would be if they made a match of it, and got married. At the luckless word “married,” Yourii’s face grew redder still, and in his eyes there was a malevolent look. He saw before him an entire romance of the usual provincial type; rose-pink _billets-doux_, sisters as confidantes, orthodox matrimony, with its inevitable commonplace sequel, home, wife, and babies—the one thing on earth that he dreaded most. “Oh! Enough of all that twaddle, please!” he said in so sharp a tone that Lialia was amazed. “Don’t make such a fuss!” she exclaimed, pettishly. “If you _are_ in love, what does it matter? I can’t think why you always pose as such an extraordinary hero.”