"Natalie!" exclaimed Boris, in a tone of the greatest surprise--a surprise made up of the greatest astonishment and not of joy--"you here?"
It was in his study, and nine o'clock in the morning. At this hour, daily, in crying opposition to his former proverbial unreliability, he had long been sitting at his writing-table. But that Natalie should leave her bedroom before ten o'clock had hitherto been an unheard-of occurrence.
But to-day, just as he was about to go to the piano, to try on that modest representative of an orchestra a completed musical phrase, he discovered her. Quite unobserved, she had mischievously crept in, and now crouched comfortably in a large arm-chair, which formed a very picturesque frame for her silk wrapper, bordered with black fur. She sat on one foot; one tiny gold-embroidered Caucasian slipper lay before her on the floor, and she smiled tenderly at her husband with her great, proud eyes. But the pride disappeared from her glance at his ejaculation, an ejaculation which expressed so much perplexity, so little joy. She started and, embarrassed, reached out for her slipper with the tip of her foot.
"Do I disturb you?" she asked, anxiously. "Must I go?"
Formerly he could not bear to have any one about him when he worked. His face wore a forced, smiling expression, while he assured her:
"Oh, not in the slightest--pray sit down." Whereupon he pushed his chair up to hers.
"Oh, if you are going to treat me so!" said she.
"How, then?" asked he.
"Like--like any visitor," she burst out, and hastened to the door. He brought her back. Then he saw that her eyes were full of tears.
"But what is the matter?"