I stole a look at her; her eyes were full of a soft light, and her face seemed as it were smiling through a mist.
“Are you still not well?” I asked her.
“No, that’s all over now,” she answered, and she picked a small red rose. “I am a little tired, but that too will pass off.”
“And will you be as you used to be again?” I asked.
Zinaïda put the rose up to her face, and I fancied the reflection of its bright petals had fallen on her cheeks. “Why, am I changed?” she questioned me.
“Yes, you are changed,” I answered in a low voice.
“I have been cold to you, I know,” began Zinaïda, “but you mustn’t pay attention to that … I couldn’t help it…. Come, why talk about it!”
“You don’t want me to love you, that’s what it is!” I cried gloomily, in an involuntary outburst.
“No, love me, but not as you did.”
“How then?”