She did not know what to say. She felt inclined to kiss Uvar
Ivanovitch.

'How he splashed!' she explained at last.

But Uvar Ivanovitch did not stir a muscle, and continued to look with
amazement at Elena. She dropped her hat and cape on to him.

'Dear Uvar Ivanovitch,' she said, 'I am sleepy and tired,' and again
she laughed and sank into a low chair near him.

'H'm,' grunted Uvar Ivanovitch, flourishing his fingers, 'then you
ought--yes----'

Elena was looking round her and thinking, 'From all this I soon must
part . . . and strange--I have no dread, no doubt, no regret. . . .
No, I am sorry for mamma.' Then the little chapel rose again before
her mind, again her voice was echoing in it, and she felt his arms
about her. Joyously, though faintly, her heart fluttered; weighed
down by the languor of happiness. The old beggar-woman recurred to her
mind. 'She did really bear away my sorrow,' she thought. 'Oh, how
happy I am! how undeservedly! how soon!' If she had let herself go
in the least she would have melted into sweet, endless tears. She
could only restrain them by laughing. Whatever attitude she fell into
seemed to her the easiest, most comfortable possible; she felt as if
she were being rocked to sleep. All her movements were slow and soft;
what had become of her awkwardness, her haste? Zoya came in; Elena
decided that she had never seen a more charming little face; Anna
Vassilyevna came in; Elena felt a pang--but with what tenderness she
embraced her mother and kissed her on the forehead near the hair,