“My fiancé,” cried Lialia, as, joyful and confused, she twisted sharply round so that her gown was puffed out. Yourii knew already, from his father’s and sister’s letters, that a young doctor recently established in the town had been paying court to Lialia, but he was not aware that their engagement was a fait accompli.
“You don’t say so?” said he, in amazement. It seemed to him so strange that pretty, fresh-looking little Lialia, almost a child, should already have a lover, and should soon become a bride—a wife. It touched him to a vague sense of pity for his sister. Yourii put his arm round Lialia’s waist and went with her into the dining-room where in the lamp-light shone the large, highly polished samovar. At the table, by the side of Nicolai Yegorovitch sat a well-built young man, not Russian in type, with bronzed features and keen bright eyes.
He rose in simple, friendly fashion to meet Yourii.
“Introduce me.”
“Anatole Pavlovitch Riasantzeff!” cried Lialia, with a gesture of comic solemnity.
“Who craves your friendship and indulgence,” added Riasantzeff, joking in his turn.
With a sincere wish to become friends, the two shook hands. For a moment it seemed as if they would embrace, but they refrained, merely exchanging frank, amicable glances.
“So this is her brother, is it?” thought Riasantzeff, in surprise, for he had imagined that a brother of Lialia, short, fair, and merry, would be short, fair and merry too. Yourii, on the contrary was tall, thin and dark, though as good-looking as Lialia, and with the same regular features.
And, as Yourii looked at Riasantzeff, he thought to himself: “So this is the man who in my little sister Lialia, as fresh and fair as a spring morning, loves the woman; loves her just as I myself have loved women.” Somehow, it hurt him to look at Lialia and Riasantzeff, as if he feared that they would read his thoughts.
The two men felt that they had much that was important to say to each other. Yourii would have liked to ask: