“Lialia! Lialitschka! What’s the matter? I didn’t mean to—Come, come, my dear little Lialia, don’t cry!” he stammered, as he pulled her hands away from her face and kissed her little wet fingers. “No! It’s true! I know it is!” she sobbed. Although she had said that she had thought about this, it was in fact pure imagination on her part, for of Riasantzeff’s intimate life she had never yet formed the slightest conception. Of course she knew that she was not his first love, and she understood what that meant, though the impression upon her mind had been a vague and never a permanent one. She felt that she loved him, and that he loved her. This was the essential thing; all else for her was of no importance whatever. Yet now that her brother had spoken thus, in a tone of censure and contempt, she seemed to stand on the verge of a precipice; that of which they talked was horrible, and indeed irreparable, her happiness was at an end; of her love for Riasantzeff there could be no thought now. Almost in tears himself, Yourii sought to comfort her, as he kissed her and stroked her hair. Yet still she wept, bitterly, hopelessly. “Oh! dear! Oh! dear!” she sobbed, just like a child. There, in the dusk, she seemed so helpless, so pitiful, that Yourii felt unspeakably grieved. Pale and confused, he ran into the house, striking his head against the door, and brought her a glass of water, half of which he spilt on the ground and over his hands. “Oh! don’t cry, Lialitschka! You mustn’t cry like that! What is the matter? Perhaps Anatole Pavlovitch is better than the rest, Lialia!” he repeated in despair. Lialia, still sobbing, shook violently, and her teeth rattled against the rim of the glass. “What is the matter, miss?” asked the maid-servant in alarm, as she appeared in the doorway. Lialia rose, and, leaning against the balustrade, went trembling and in tears towards her room. “My dear little mistress, tell me, what is it? Shall I call the master, Yourii Nicolaijevitch?” Nicolai Yegorovitch at that moment came out of his study, walking in slow, measured fashion. He stopped short in the doorway, amazed at the sight of Lialia. “What has happened?” “Oh! nothing! A mere trifle!” replied Yourii, with a forced laugh. “We were talking about Riasantzeff. It’s all nonsense!” Nicolai Yegorovitch looked hard at him and suddenly his face wore a look of extreme displeasure. “What the devil have you been saying?” he exclaimed as, shrugging his shoulders, he turned abruptly on his heel and withdrew. Yourii flushed angrily, and would have made some insolent reply, but a sudden sense of shame caused him to remain silent. Feeling irritated with his father, and grieved for Lialia, while despising himself, he went down the steps into the garden. A little frog, croaking beneath his feet, burst like an acorn. He slipped, and with a cry of disgust sprang aside. Mechanically he wiped his foot for a long while on the wet grass, feeling a cold shiver down his back.