Vjera, who was tired of the close atmosphere of the workroom and whose
strength was not enough to let her walk far with pleasure, sat down upon
the green bench willingly enough, but the nervous look of pain had not
disappeared from her face.

"Is it of any use to tell it to me again?" she asked, sadly, as she leaned
against the painted backboard.

The Count produced a cigarette and gravely lighted it, before he answered
her, and when he spoke he seemed to attach little or no importance to her
question.

"You see," he said, "it is all different now, and I can look at it from a
different point of view. Formerly when I spoke of it, I am afraid that I
spoke bitterly, for, of course, I could not foresee that it could all come
right again so soon, so very soon. And now that this weary time is over I
can look back upon it with some pride, if with little pleasure--save for
the part you have played in my life, and--may I say it?--saving the part I
have played in yours."

He put out his hand gently and tenderly touched hers, and there was
something in the meeting of those two thin, yellow hands, stained with the
same daily labour and not meeting for the first time thus, that sent a
thrill to the two hearts and that might have brought a look of thoughtful
interest into eyes dulled and wearied by the ordinary sights of this
world. Vjera did not resent the innocent caress, but the colour that came
into her face was not of the same hue as that which had burned there when
he had insisted upon carrying her basket. This time the blush was not
painful to see, but rather shed a faint light of beauty over the plain,
pale features. Poor Vjera was happy for a moment.