She approached the door leading into the garden.
“What a night!”—she exclaimed.—“Come here; hold out your face to it; do you feel how it seems to breathe upon you? And what fragrance! all the flowers have waked up now. They have waked up—and we are preparing to go to sleep.... Ah, by the way, Másha,”—she added:—“I have told Vladímir Sergyéitch, you know, that thou art not fond of poetry. And now, farewell ... yonder comes my horse....”
And she ran briskly down the steps of the terrace, swung herself lightly into the saddle, said, “Good-bye until to-morrow!”—and lashing her horse on the neck with her riding-switch, she galloped off in the direction of the dam.... The groom set off at a trot after her.
All gazed after her....
“Until to-morrow!”—her voice rang out once more from behind the poplars.
The hoof-beats were still audible for a long time in the silence of the summer night. At last, Ipátoff proposed that they should go into the house again.
“It really is very nice out of doors,”—he said;—“but we must finish our game.”
All obeyed him. Vladímir Sergyéitch began to question Márya Pávlovna as to why she did not like poetry.
“Verses do not please me,”—she returned, with apparent reluctance.
“But perhaps you have not read many verses?”