“Are you all right, Grunya?” asked Dmitry Parfentyevich, sitting down beside his daughter.
“Yes,” she answered briefly.
The girl wore a dark dress. A Scythian kerchief on her forehead threw a shadow over her pale young face; her large eyes were dreamy and thoughtful.
“The main thing is heavenly blessing and quiet,” moralized Dmitry Parfentyevich.
His life was moving toward its close and he thought that nothing could be better than the quiet of a dying day....
Only quiet and prayer after sinful vanity and weakness.... May God grant no new wishes, but save from every new temptation.
“Grunya?” Dmitry Parfentyevich looked at his daughter and he wished to ask about her own thoughts.
“Yes,” answered the girl, but her gaze, dreamily running far ahead over the golden river and the mountains with their quiet veil of bluish mist, seemed to be seeking something else.
The passengers on the deck were just as quiet. Some were carrying on private conversations; others were getting ready for tea at the little tables.