“Lialia! Lialitschka! What’s the matter? I didn’t mean to—Come, come, my dear little Lialia, don’t cry!” he stammered, as he pulled her hands away from her face and kissed her little wet fingers.
“No! It’s true! I know it is!” she sobbed.
Although she had said that she had thought about this, it was in fact pure imagination on her part, for of Riasantzeff’s intimate life she had never yet formed the slightest conception. Of course she knew that she was not his first love, and she understood what that meant, though the impression upon her mind had been a vague and never a permanent one.
She felt that she loved him, and that he loved her. This was the essential thing; all else for her was of no importance whatever. Yet now that her brother had spoken thus, in a tone of censure and contempt, she seemed to stand on the verge of a precipice; that of which they talked was horrible, and indeed irreparable, her happiness was at an end; of her love for Riasantzeff there could be no thought now.
Almost in tears himself, Yourii sought to comfort her, as he kissed her and stroked her hair. Yet still she wept, bitterly, hopelessly.
“Oh! dear! Oh! dear!” she sobbed, just like a child.
There, in the dusk, she seemed so helpless, so pitiful, that Yourii felt unspeakably grieved. Pale and confused, he ran into the house, striking his head against the door, and brought her a glass of water, half of which he spilt on the ground and over his hands.
“Oh! don’t cry, Lialitschka! You mustn’t cry like that! What is the matter? Perhaps Anatole Pavlovitch is better than the rest, Lialia!” he repeated in despair. Lialia, still sobbing, shook violently, and her teeth rattled against the rim of the glass.
“What is the matter, miss?” asked the maid-servant in alarm, as she appeared in the doorway. Lialia rose, and, leaning against the balustrade, went trembling and in tears towards her room.
“My dear little mistress, tell me, what is it? Shall I call the master, Yourii Nicolaijevitch?”