The sun blazed in at the windows, the green trees all washed and fresh
from the rain gladdened his eye, and down below, a sapphire lake reflected
the snow-capped mountains. What a setting for a love-dream. No wonder Paul
trod on air!


The only possible crumpled rose-leaves were some sentences in the lady's
reply to his impassioned letter of the morning:

"Yes, I will come, Paul--but only on one condition, that you never ask me
questions as to who I am, or where I am going. You must promise me to take
life as a summer holiday--an episode--and if fate gives us this great joy,
you must not try to fetter me, now or at any future time, or control my
movements. You must give me your word of honour for this--you will never
seek to discover who or what was your loved one--you must never try to
follow me. Yes, I will come for now--when I have your assurance--but I
will go when I will go--in silence."

And Paul had given his word. He felt he could not look ahead. He must just
live in this gorgeous joy, and trust to chance. So he awaited her,
thrilling in all his being.

About tea time she drove up in a carriage--she and Dmitry having come the
long way round.

And was it not right that her secretary should meet and assist her out,
and conduct her to her apartments?

How beautiful she looked, all in palest grey, and somehow the things had a