“Have you heard Alma in that rôle?”
“Well, I like that, really! Did we not hear her together at St. Petersburg! Have you forgotten already?”
“Ach, that was so long ago.”
“Though this opera is immortal by itself, I have seen it over a hundred times, and will be glad to see it as many times more. Here one sees life as in a mirror—Yes—Do you remember—in the garden?” he concluded in a low voice, leaning toward his wife.
Xenia Pavlovna’s face was covered with a slight blush, and her eyes had a thoughtful, far-away look in them, which gradually grew sad and dreamy.
“All this was, but it has passed as if in a dream,” her lips whispered, and her head swayed on her beautiful bare neck.
Here some acquaintances passed and, pressing their hands warmly, inquired:
“How are you?”
“Very well, thank you. And you?”
“Pretty well, as usual. But you, Xenia Pavlovna, still continue to grow more beautiful!”