They were silent, neither of them knowing the way to speak.
Then she said: "John, don't r-run away. It is very good. I wanted to speak to you. Here, sit down here."
She herself sat down and patted the grass, inviting him. He at once sat down beside her, but he could say nothing—nothing at all.
She waited for a time and then, seeing him, I suppose, at a loss and helpless, regained her own courage. "Are you still angry with me?"
"No," he answered, not looking at her.
"You have a right to be; I behaved very badly."
"I don't understand," he replied, "why you thought in Petrograd that you loved me and then—so soon—found that you did not—so soon."
He looked at her and then lowered his eyes.
"What do you know or I know?" she suddenly asked him impetuously. "Are we not both always thinking that things will be so fine—seichass—and then they are not. How could we be happy together when we are both so ignorant? Ah, you know, John, you know that happy together we could never be."
He looked at her clearly and without hesitation.