Just then the moon, large, round and red, was rising above the black tree-tops. Its soft evasive light touched the stone steps, and Lida’s dress, and her pensive, smiling face. In the garden the shadows had grown deeper; they were now sombre and profound as those of the forest.
Novikoff sighed, and then blurted out.
“I prefer you to the moon,” thinking to himself, “that’s an idiotic remark!”
Lida burst out laughing.
“What a lumpish compliment!” she exclaimed.
“I don’t know how to pay compliments,” was Novikoff’s sullen rejoinder.
“Very well, then, sit still and listen,” said Lida, shrugging her shoulders, pettishly.
But you no longer care, I know,
Why should I grieve you with my woe?
The tones of the piano rang out with silvery clearness through the green, humid garden. The moonlight became more and more intense and the shadows harder. Crossing the grass, Sanine sat down under a linden-tree and was about to light a cigarette. Then he suddenly stopped and remained motionless, as if spell-bound by the evening calm that the sounds of the piano and of this youthfully sentimental voice in no way disturbed, but rather served to make more complete.
“Lidia Petrovna!” cried Novikoff hurriedly, as if this particular moment must never be lost. “Well?” asked Lida mechanically, as she looked at the garden and the moon above it and the dark boughs that stood out sharply against its silver disc.