He breathed in broken gasps. His legs shook under him.

Gemma passed by the arbour, turned to the right, passed by a small
flat fountain, in which the sparrows were splashing busily, and, going
behind a clump of high lilacs, sank down on a bench. The place was
snug and hidden. Sanin sat down beside her.

A minute passed, and neither he nor she uttered a word. She did not
even look at him; and he gazed not at her face, but at her clasped
hands, in which she held a small parasol. What was there to tell, what
was there to say, which could compare, in importance, with the simple
fact of their presence there, together, alone, so early, so close to
each other.

'You ... are not angry with me?' Sanin articulated at last.

It would have been difficult for Sanin to have said anything more
foolish than these words ... he was conscious of it himself.... But,
at any rate, the silence was broken.

'Angry?' she answered. 'What for? No.'

'And you believe me?' he went on.

'In what you wrote?'

'Yes.'

Gemma's head sank, and she said nothing. The parasol slipped out of