There was something very familiar, even home-like, in the English arrangement of this house. When he was seated upon a luxurious lounge chair, there was a table at his elbow, with English books and magazines upon it. Miss Forester had welcomed him upon his arrival the previous evening, but they had had no talk. Nadia he had not seen. In this place he felt as though he should soon recover. The deadly depression, which had been largely nostalgia, though of this he was not aware, was dispelled as if by magic.
A new, dreamy, blissful content overspread him. He almost wished he had not sent for Aunt Bee and Rona. It seemed unnecessary expense and trouble for them. He thought of it, in a fashion more and more broken, as sleep stole over his eyelids. Even the slight effort of dressing and coming downstairs had made him weary. He slept.
When he opened his eyes he thought he was still dreaming. For over him there stooped a face, lovely, vivid, delicately flushed. It seemed to rise above a bank of flowers, of every gorgeous hue. To gaze into its eyes was like looking into deep wells. He lay there taking in the vision, saying nothing; and by degrees he saw that it was a real girl, whose rounded throat rose above an embroidered white gown, which was without the high collar which is usual in England, and that she held a sheaf of blossoms in her arms.
When he had looked for a moment which seemed endless, her lips parted in a smile which gave the effect of a glow of hot sunshine. "Oh," she said in fluent English, and a voice of a timbre which he then heard for the first time—"Oh, are you awake?"
"I think so," said Denzil vaguely. The tones of the voice moved him strangely. Then, aware of the stupidity of his remark, he sat up, and reddened a little.
"I am Nadia Stepanovna," said she. "You look very ill. I hope you are feeling a little better this morning?"
"I feel a different man altogether," he responded with warm cordiality. "My mind is at rest since I knew of my brother's safety. And then this place—this fine air, this peace and repose—how good of you to let me be here!"
"I have wanted to see you for some days," said she, frankly. "I was so interested when I heard that you had come. Of course, I know your brother quite well. He is often here."
"Of course," said Denzil, a little coldly.
"But then he has lived so long with Vronsky, he is more like a continental," went on Nadia, seating herself upon a chair nearby, and laying down her flowers upon a table. "But I have read quantities of English books, and the men in them are so unlike our Russian men, and I have always wanted to see a real, genuine Englishman—a man like you."