Glasha appeared at the garden gate. She glanced cheerfully along both
sides of the road. Walking more slowly she approached Elena Kirillovna
deferentially.
Glasha looked quite ordinary now, stiff-mannered and stupid. There was
nothing to envy in her. Her dress too was quite common-place. Her
braids were arranged upon her head quite like a young lady’s, and held
fast by three combs of transparent bone. Her blouse was
light-coloured—pink stripes and lavender flowers on a ground of
white—its short sleeves reached the elbows. She wore a neat blue skirt
and a white apron.
Elena Kirillovna asked:
“Well, what is it, Glashenka? Is Sonyushka up yet?”
Glasha replied in a respectful voice:
“Sofia Alexandrovna is getting up. She wants me to ask you if we shall
lay the table on the terrace?”
“Yes, yes, let it be on the terrace. And how is Natashenka?” asked
Elena Kirillovna, looking anxiously at Glasha.
“The young lady is asleep,” answered Glasha. “To-day again, quite
early, she went out for a walk straight from bed, without so much as a
bite of something. Her skirt’s wet with dew. She might have caught a
cold. And now she sleeps. If you’d but talk to her.”
Elena Kirillovna said irresolutely:
“Very well. I had better be going. All right, Glasha.”
Glasha goes. Elena Kirillovna rises slowly from the bench, as though
she regretted moving from the spot where she saw Borya in a half-dream.
Slowly she walks toward the house.
Having reached the gate she pauses, and again looks for some moments
down the road, in the direction of the station.
A cart rumbles by noisily over the travelled road. The _muzhik_ barely
holds the reins and rocks from side to side sleepily. The harnessed
horse swings its tail and its head. A white-haired urchin, in broad
blue breeches, lets his brown feet hang over the edge of the cart and
stares with his bright hazel eyes at a gaunt, evil-looking dog which
runs after, barking hoarsely.
Elena Kirillovna gives a sigh—there is as yet no Borya—and enters the
garden.
Glasha’s light-coloured blouse glimmers on the terrace. There is a
rattle of dishes. The grumbling chatter of Borya’s old nurse is also
audible.