“Drive on!” he ordered the chauffeur.
When a mile from Langaza Lake, the car was drawn up by the side of the deserted road, and their chauffeur spread out their lunch under the shade of a little grove of poplars.
In silence they ate and drank. The sun-baked plain sent waves of visible heat into the sky. No birds sang. The bronze sound of a sheep-bell came from afar.
“Life passes,” said Katya, at length, “and we grow older.”
“True,” answered he, mockingly. “It is only the grass that never withers. It was here ten thousand years ago, and it is here to-day.”
“But you and I!—how quickly age will come to us!” she said.
“How foolish, then, to waste our youth!” he urged. “Sometimes I feel angry at those days which slip by empty of ecstasy. Waste! It’s all waste! Waste of days, of months, of years! Just because we refuse to take what life offers us. We do not live for ever, and the things that taste sweet to-day will in a few years be but bitterness and ashes.”
He allowed his wine-glass to slip from his lax fingers on to the grass.
“Let us walk,” he said; “I’m restless.”
So they rose and walked slowly towards the lake.