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"What's the matter? You are ill?" he said to her in French, going

up to her. He would have run to her, but remembering that there

might be spectators, he looked round towards the balcony door,

and reddened a little, as he always reddened, feeling that he had

to be afraid and be on his guard.

"No, I'm quite well," she said, getting up and pressing his

outstretched hand tightly. "I did not expect ... thee."

"Mercy! what cold hands!" he said.

"You startled me," she said. "I'm alone, and expecting Seryozha;

he's out for a walk; they'll come in from this side."

But, in spite of her efforts to be calm, her lips were quivering.

"Forgive me for coming, but I couldn't pass the day without

seeing you," he went on, speaking French, as he always did to

avoid using the stiff Russian plural form, so impossibly frigid

between them, and the dangerously intimate singular.

"Forgive you? I'm so glad!"