At any other time this would have interested Yourii, but now something made him indifferent. Lialia looked very serious, waiting, as a child might wait, for her brother’s praise. At last he managed to murmur. “Oh! really!” “With all that to do, can you expect me to be bored?” said Lialia contentedly. “Well, anyhow, everything bores me,” replied Yourii involuntarily. She pretended to be hurt. “That’s very nice of you, I am sure. You’ve hardly been two hours in the house, and asleep most of the time, yet you are bored already!” “It is not my fault, but my misfortune,” replied Yourii, in a slightly arrogant tone. He thought it showed superior intelligence to be bored rather than amused. “Your misfortune, indeed!” cried Lialia, mockingly. “Ha! Ha!” She pretended to slap him. “Ha! Ha!” Yourii did not perceive that he had already recovered his good humour. Lialia’s merry voice and her joy of living had speedily banished his depression which he had imagined to be very real and deep. Lialia did not believe in his melancholy, and therefore his remarks caused her no concern. Yourii looked at her, and said with a smile. “I am never merry.” At this Lialia laughed, as though he had said something vastly droll. “Very well, Knight of the Rueful Countenance, if you aren’t you aren’t. Never mind, come with me, and I will introduce you to a charming young man. Come!” So saying she took her brother’s hand, and laughingly led him along. “Stop! Who is this charming young man?” “My fiancé,” cried Lialia, as, joyful and confused, she twisted sharply round so that her gown was puffed out. Yourii knew already, from his father’s and sister’s letters, that a young doctor recently established in the town had been paying court to Lialia, but he was not aware that their engagement was a _fait accompli_. “You don’t say so?” said he, in amazement. It seemed to him so strange that pretty, fresh-looking little Lialia, almost a child, should already have a lover, and should soon become a bride—a wife. It touched him to a vague sense of pity for his sister. Yourii put his arm round Lialia’s waist and went with her into the dining-room where in the lamp-light shone the large, highly polished samovar. At the table, by the side of Nicolai Yegorovitch sat a well-built young man, not Russian in type, with bronzed features and keen bright eyes. He rose in simple, friendly fashion to meet Yourii. “Introduce me.” “Anatole Pavlovitch Riasantzeff!” cried Lialia, with a gesture of comic solemnity. “Who craves your friendship and indulgence,” added Riasantzeff, joking in his turn. With a sincere wish to become friends, the two shook hands. For a moment it seemed as if they would embrace, but they refrained, merely exchanging frank, amicable glances.