“And will you spend the night?”—Ipátoff asked Vladímir Sergyéitch.
“Really, I don’t know.... However, if I do not incommode you....”
“Not in the least, I assure you; I will immediately order a chamber to be prepared for you.”
“But it is nice to ride by moonlight,”—began Nadézhda Alexyéevna, as soon as candles were brought, tea was served, and Ipátoff and Egór Kapítonitch had sat down to play preference together, while The Folding Soul seated himself silently beside them:—“especially through the forest, between the walnut-trees. It is both terrifying and agreeable, and what a strange play of light and shade there is—it always seems as though some one were stealing up behind you, or in front of you....”
Vladímir Sergyéitch smirked condescendingly.
“And here’s another thing,”—she went on;—“have you ever happened to sit beside the forest on a warm, dark, tranquil night? At such times it always seems to me as though two persons were hotly disputing in an almost inaudible whisper, behind me, close at my very ear.”
“That is the blood beating,”—said Ipátoff.
“You describe in a very poetical way,”—remarked Vladímir Sergyéitch. Nadézhda Alexyéevna glanced at him.
“Do you think so?... In that case, my description would not please Másha.”