“But better not think, better not think . . .” she whispered. “I must not think of it.”
“Tick-tock,” tapped the watchman somewhere far away. “Tick-tock . . . tick-tock. . . .”
III
In the middle of June Sasha suddenly felt bored and made up his mind to return to Moscow.
“I can’t exist in this town,” he said gloomily. “No water supply, no drains! It disgusts me to eat at dinner; the filth in the kitchen is incredible. . . .”
“Wait a little, prodigal son!” Granny tried to persuade him, speaking for some reason in a whisper, “the wedding is to be on the seventh.”
“I don’t want to.”
“You meant to stay with us until September!”
“But now, you see, I don’t want to. I must get to work.”
The summer was grey and cold, the trees were wet, everything in the garden looked dejected and uninviting, it certainly did make one long to get to work. The sound of unfamiliar women’s voices was heard downstairs and upstairs, there was the rattle of a sewing machine in Granny’s room, they were working hard at the trousseau. Of fur coats alone, six were provided for Nadya, and the cheapest of them, in Granny’s words, had cost three hundred roubles! The fuss irritated Sasha; he stayed in his own room and was cross, but everyone persuaded him to remain, and he promised not to go before the first of July.