They lived in the capital that winter. Boris was studying his final
term in the _gymnasia_. For Christmas he went to another city: to
relatives, he said.
Natasha was suspicious. But he did not tell her the truth.
“Really, nothing,” he answered to all her questions. “No one is sending
me. I am going of my own accord. To see Aunt Liuba.”
And Natasha did not insist.
For several days she did not get any letters from him. But she did not
worry. Boris disliked writing letters. They thought he was enjoying
himself.
It was an evening in early January. Her mother and grandmother had gone
out visiting. Natasha, pleading a headache, remained at home.
“I’ll lie down on the sofa. It will pass away.”
The truth was she thought the home of her affected, worldly relatives a
dull place, and she had no desire to go there.
The maid had leave to go out. Natasha remained in the house alone. She
lay down in her room on the sofa with an interesting new book.
After the cheer and ease of the holidays, Natasha felt in good spirits.
She was comfortable, tranquil and cheerful. The hangings on the windows
were impenetrably opaque. The lamp, burning brightly and evenly,
concealed its garish white blaze from her eyes under its trimmed,
beaded shade. The whole small room was lost in a luminous twilight.
At last, however, page after page of running lines of print tired
Natasha. She dropped into a doze, and was shortly sound asleep. The
open book fell softly on the rug.