[CHAPTER XXVI]
Sasha was fascinated by Liudmilla, but something prevented him from talking about her to Kokovkina. He felt somehow ashamed, and sometimes he came to be afraid of her visits. His heart would feel faint and his eyebrows contract involuntarily when he saw her rose-yellow hat pass quickly under his window. Nevertheless he awaited her with anxiety and impatience—he was sad when she did not come for a long time. Contradictory feelings were mingled in his soul, feelings dark and vague—morbid because premature, and sweet because morbid.
Liudmilla had called neither yesterday nor to-day. Sasha exhausted himself with waiting and had already ceased to expect her. Suddenly she came. He grew radiant and rushed forward to kiss her hand.
"Well, have you forgotten me?" he reproached her. "I haven't seen you for two days."
She laughed happily and a sweet, languid and piquant odour of Japanese funkia emanated from her, as if it came from her light hair. Liudmilla and Sasha went out for a walk in the town. They invited Kokovkina but she would not go.
"How could an old woman like me go out with you? I'd only get in your way. You'd better go out by yourselves."
"But we'll get into mischief," laughed Liudmilla.
The warm, languid air caressed them and called to remembrance the irrevocable. The sun, as if diseased, burned dimly and lividly in the pale, tired sky. The dry leaves lay humbly on the dark earth, dead.
Liudmilla and Sasha went into a hollow. It was cool, refreshing, almost damp there—a tender autumn weariness reigned there within its shady slopes.