Foma looked at her and saw that when alone she was not quite so good-looking as in the presence of people--now her face looked older, more serious--her eyes had not the expression of kindness and gentleness, they had a rather tired and weary look. And her pose, too, was weary, as if the woman were about to stir but could not. Foma noticed that the feeling which prompted him to come to her was now changing in his heart into some other feeling. He scraped with his foot along the floor and coughed. “Who is that?” asked the woman, starting with alarm. And the strings trembled, issuing an alarmed sound. “It is I,” said Foma, pushing aside the strings of the beads. “Ah! But how quietly you’ve entered. I am glad to see you. Be seated! Why didn’t you come for such a long time?” Holding out her hand to him, she pointed with the other at a small armchair beside her, and her eyes were gaily smiling. “I was out on the bay inspecting my steamers,” said Foma, with exaggerated ease, moving his armchair nearer to the couch. “Is there much snow yet on the fields?” “As much as one may want. But it is already melting considerably. There is water on the roads everywhere.” He looked at her and smiled. Evidently Medinskaya noticed the ease of his behaviour and something new in his smile, for she adjusted her dress and drew farther away from him. Their eyes met--and Medinskaya lowered her head. “Melting!” said she, thoughtfully, examining the ring on her little finger. “Ye-es, streams everywhere.” Foma informed her, admiring his boots. “That’s good. Spring is coming.” “Now it won’t be delayed long.” “Spring is coming,” repeated Medinskaya, softly, as if listening to the sounds of her words. “People will start to fall in love,” said Foma, with a smile, and for some reason or other firmly rubbed his hands. “Are you preparing yourself?” asked Medinskaya, drily. “I have no need for it. I have been ready long ago. I am already in love for all my life.” She cast a glance at him, and started to play again, looking at the strings and saying pensively: “Spring. How good it is that you are but beginning to live. The heart is full of power, and there is nothing dark in it.” “Sophya Pavlovna!” exclaimed Foma, softly. She interrupted him with a caressing gesture. “Wait, dearest! Today I can tell you something good. Do you know, a person who has lived long has such moments that when he looks into his heart he unexpectedly finds there something long forgotten. For years it lay somewhere in the depth of his heart, but lost none of the fragrance of youth, and when memory touches it, then spring comes over that person, breathing upon him the vivifying freshness of the morning of his life. This is good, though it is very sad.”