For a moment she sat in an attentive attitude. I noticed her face wore an expression of intense anxiety and that the colour had fled from her cheeks.
A few moments later I distinguished the voice of the servant answering her master, and after some further conversation a man exclaimed—
“Dobroi notsche, Souvaroff.” (“Good-night.”)
To this the man addressed replied in a cheery tone, the front door slammed, and my host returned into the room.
As he entered, he uttered some words in Polish patois to his daughter. It must have been some announcement of a startling character, for, uttering an ejaculation of alarm, she reeled and almost fell.
In a moment, however, she had recovered herself, and sank into an armchair in a grave, dejected attitude. All the light had left her face, and with her chin resting upon her breast she gazed down in thoughtful silence upon the rosettes on her little morocco slippers.
Souvaroff appeared to have aged ten years since he left the room half an hour before, and although I endeavoured to resume our conversation, he only replied in monosyllables.
I marvelled at this sudden change. Even if an unwelcome visitor had called, I could see no reason why such a strange effect should be produced.
I remained to supper, after which Prascovie threw a shawl about her shoulders and walked with me to the gate. I expressed a desire to call again and spend another evening in listening to the passionate Caucausian songs, but she appeared strangely indifferent. She merely wished me “Prostchai” very formally, and when we shook hands, she drew back, and I fancied she shuddered.
Then I turned away, and the gate was locked behind me.