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This child, with his innocent outlook upon life, was the compass

that showed them the point to which they had departed from what

they knew, but did not want to know.

This time Seryozha was not at home, and she was completely alone.

She was sitting on the terrace waiting for the return of her son,

who had gone out for his walk and been caught in the rain. She

had sent a manservant and a maid out to look for him. Dressed in

a white gown, deeply embroidered, she was sitting in a corner of

the terrace behind some flowers, and did not hear him. Bending

her curly black head, she pressed her forehead against a cool

watering pot that stood on the parapet, and both her lovely

hands, with the rings he knew so well, clasped the pot. The

beauty of her whole figure, her head, her neck, her hands, struck

Vronsky every time as something new and unexpected. He stood

still, gazing at her in ecstasy. But, directly he would have made

a step to come nearer to her, she was aware of his presence,

pushed away the watering pot, and turned her flushed face towards

him.