That night Stefan Nikolai, usually very regular in habit, sat so late by his open window that the servant Sacha emerged at intervals to investigate.
"Is Excellency ill, that he neither sleeps nor reads?"
"Not ill, Sacha. Go to bed."
There was a lilac-tree blooming below the window, and the scent of the young summer came in to him, flooding his heart, his senses—
The servant appeared again.
"Has Excellency sadness?"
"Not sadness, Sacha. I think—it is happiness."
"And yet he sighs?"
Nikolai stirred, and got to his feet.