She turned her head to look at me, and turned away again.
“Impression?” she repeated slowly, almost dreamily; then in a quicker tone—
“He seems to be a man who has suffered more from his thoughts than from evil fortune.”
“From his thoughts, you say?”
“And that is natural enough in a Russian,” she took me up. “In a young Russian; so many of them are unfit for action, and yet unable to rest.”
“And you think he is that sort of man?”
“No, I do not judge him. How could I, so suddenly? You asked for my impression—I explain my impression. I—I—don’t know the world, nor yet the people in it; I have been too solitary—I am too young to trust my own opinions.”
“Trust your instinct,” I advised her. “Most women trust to that, and make no worse mistakes than men. In this case you have your brother’s letter to help you.”
She drew a deep breath like a light sigh. “Unstained, lofty, and solitary existences,” she quoted as if to herself. But I caught the wistful murmur distinctly.
“High praise,” I whispered to her.