Glasha looked quite ordinary now, stiff-mannered and stupid. There was nothing to envy in her. Her dress too was quite common-place. Her braids were arranged upon her head quite like a young lady’s, and held fast by three combs of transparent bone. Her blouse was light-coloured—pink stripes and lavender flowers on a ground of white—its short sleeves reached the elbows. She wore a neat blue skirt and a white apron.
Elena Kirillovna asked:
“Well, what is it, Glashenka? Is Sonyushka up yet?”
Glasha replied in a respectful voice:
“Sofia Alexandrovna is getting up. She wants me to ask you if we shall lay the table on the terrace?”
“Yes, yes, let it be on the terrace. And how is Natashenka?” asked Elena Kirillovna, looking anxiously at Glasha.
“The young lady is asleep,” answered Glasha. “To-day again, quite early, she went out for a walk straight from bed, without so much as a bite of something. Her skirt’s wet with dew. She might have caught a cold. And now she sleeps. If you’d but talk to her.”
Elena Kirillovna said irresolutely:
“Very well. I had better be going. All right, Glasha.”
Glasha goes. Elena Kirillovna rises slowly from the bench, as though she regretted moving from the spot where she saw Borya in a half-dream. Slowly she walks toward the house.