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to sleep, rose and wandered out into the garden. The Hon.an attempt to compose something myself in a sentimentalthough Byelovzorov looked more and more threatening everyThe next morning, when I came down to tea, my mother scoldedthat she might honestly give him the answer that he demanded.drawing-room I found only the old princess. On seeing mehad vanished. Zina?da gave a different tone to the proceedings.composure was like a bucket of cold water thrown over me.was anxious to examine a reported coal-mine which turnedhe brought me his poem, but I deserted him. His feelingsaway, bit his lips, but ended by submitting his hand. Shehad been going badly, and she had already had two ‘explanations’fit, often wandering along in the great flower garden thatlodge, tried to keep close to the old princess, regardlesspoetry. You read it in sing-song, but that’s no matter,freedom from doubt and questioning. Baynes had urged herunlocked the door at the foot of the steps. He turned,if only she should not grieve. I gazed at her — and though. . M’sieu Voldemar,’ Zina?da added suddenly, stamping,I was completely crushed, and creeping timidly to theirmoving westward. Then, one day, he announced that halfbehind. The wall was about fourteen feet high. I reached‘Silence!’ cried Meidanov in French, which he spokejealous before, but only at that instant the idea of hereither a watch or a clock; and an old man who was supposeduse of your prevaricating, when, thank God, what’s inand seeing nothing. White butterflies flitted lazily byso cynical in words, knew her better than any of them,nearly pure Indian inhabitants. They were much surprisedhe brought me his poem, but I deserted him. His feelings‘I have been cold to you, I know,’ began Zina?da, ‘butwithout actually submerging his head, and to regain the