"Yes, certainly," says, shyly, Nita, who has slowly risen. "But that does not alter Maschenka's unhappiness. Do you think that it is still possible to save her?"
Lady Banbury shrugs her shoulders.
"Is there no hope?" sobs Nita.
"I will do what I can to arrange it," says Lady Banbury, "but it is a very unfortunate affair. Men are curious beings; they pardon most hardly the sins which one has committed for their sake."
XXXI.
In the Jeliagins' little sandy garden behind the house sits Lensky with his daughter. It is Sunday afternoon. Upon his gentle, loving persuasion, she has left her bed for the first time. As the maid had left the house with the Jeliagins, the kitchen maid, with her red, swollen, awkward, but kind hands, has dressed her, slowly, as one dresses an invalid who will not or cannot help herself. When she was ready, they could not at first induce her to leave the room. With little steps, trembling and tottering, she dragged herself to the door, leaning on her father's arm; but then she suddenly turned round, and clinging with a wild gesture to the bed-posts, she declared with rigid obstinacy: "No--no--no!" until she at length, half exhausted by opposition, half calmed by her father's tender assurances that she would certainly see no one, with her head hidden on his shoulder, let him carry her down-stairs.
The sight of every object which reminded her of her past life, of the outer world, is indescribably painful to her.
Now they sit together on a hard green bench in the warm summer afternoon. The little garden is quite filled with transparent gray shadows. It is very quiet--Sunday quiet. Lensky's eyes fasten on his child. He uneasily seeks something which he may tell her without humiliating her, without paining her.
"Maschenka!"
"Papa!"