The hour of the early luncheon came. All three sat at the table on the
terrace. There was a fourth place laid, and a fourth chair, for who
could tell whether Borya might not arrive at luncheon time!
The sun was already high. The day was turning sultry. The fragrance of
the red roses at the foot of the goddess’s pedestal became ever more
passionate. And the smile of the marble-white Aphrodite was even more
clear and serene, as she let fall her draperies with a marvellous grace
born of eternal movement. In the bright sunshine the sand on the
footpaths seemed yellow-white. The trees cast austere dark shadows.
They seemed to exhale an odour of the soil, of sap, and of warmth.
The women sat so that each one of them, looking beyond the drawn
hangings of the terrace and over the bushes, could see the short narrow
path ending at the garden gate, where a part of the road was also
visible; they could not fail to observe every passer-by and every
vehicle.
But during this hour of the day hardly anyone ever walked or drove by
the old house.
Glasha waited on them. She had on a newly-laundered cap with starched
ribbons and plaited frills fitting tightly over her hair. The
snow-white cap shone pleasantly above Glasha’s fresh, sunburnt face.
In the garden, on a form just under the terrace, sat Borya’s old nurse,
dressed in a dark lavender blouse, black skirt, with a dark blue
kerchief over her head. She was warming her old bones in the sun, and
listening to the conversation on the terrace; now she grumbled, now she
dozed.
Broad-boned and stout, she had a round, amiable face, and even through
the compact network of wrinkles there were palpable suggestions of
former beauty. Her eyes were clear. The grey hair was flatly combed
down. Her figure and her face wore a settled expression of languid good
nature.