A faint grey mist rose from the meadow and the grass grew paler in the dew. “It is getting damp,” said Sina, shivering slightly. Yourii unconsciously looked at her round, soft shoulders, feeling instantly confused, and she, aware of his glance became confused also, although it was pleasant to her. “Let us go.” Regretfully they returned along the narrow garden-path, each brushing lightly against the other at times as they walked. All around seemed dark and deserted, and Yourii fancied that now the garden’s own life was about to begin, a life mysterious and to all unknown. Yonder, amid the trees and across the dew-laden grass strange shadows soon would steal, as the dusk deepened, and voices whispered in green, silent places. This he said to Sina, and her dark eyes wistfully peered into the gloom. If, so Yourii thought, she were suddenly to fling all her clothing aside, and rush all white and nude and joyous over the dewy grass towards the dim thicket, this would not be in the least strange, but beautiful and natural; nor would it disturb the life of the green, dark garden, but would make this more complete. This, too, he had a wish to tell her, but he dared not do so, and spoke instead of the people and of lectures. But their conversation flagged, and then ceased, as if they were only wasting words. Thus they reached the gateway in silence, smiling to themselves, brushing the dew from the branches with their shoulders. Everything seemed as calm and happy and pensive as they were themselves. As before, the courtyard was dark and solitary, but the outer gate was open, and a sound of hasty footsteps in the house could be heard, and of the opening and shutting of drawers. “Olga has come back,” said Sina. “Oh! Sina, is that you?” asked Dubova from within, and the tone of her voice suggested some sinister occurrence. Pale and agitated, she appeared in the doorway. “Where were you? I have been looking for you. Semenoff is dying!” she said breathlessly. “What!” exclaimed Sina, horror-struck. “Yes, he is dying. He broke a blood-vessel. Anatole Pavlovitch says that he’s done for. They have taken him to the hospital. It was dreadfully sudden. There we were, at the Ratoffs’, having tea, and he was so merry, arguing with Novikoff about something or other. Then he suddenly began to cough, stood up, and staggered, and the blood spurted out, on to the table-cloth, and into a little saucer of jam … all black, and clotted….” “Does he know it himself?” asked Yourii with grim interest. He instantly remembered the moonlit night, the sombre shadow, and the weak, broken voice, saying, “You will be alive, and you’ll pass my grave, and stop, whilst I …” “Yes, he seems to know,” replied Dubova, with a nervous movement of the hands. “He looked at us all, and asked ‘What is it?’ And then he shook from head to foot and said, ‘Already!’ … Oh! isn’t it awful?” “It’s too shocking!” All were silent.