rapid, and rather vigorous, thump on the shoulder. He started.. . . Before him in a light, grey-green barege dress, in a white tulle hat, and suède gloves, stood Maria Nikolaevna, fresh and rosy as a summer morning, though the languor of sound unbroken sleep had not yet quite vanished from her movements and her eyes.
'Good-morning,' she said. 'I sent after you to-day, but you 'd already gone out. I've only just drunk my second glass—they're making me drink the water here, you know—whatever for, there's no telling . . . am I not healthy enough? And now I have to walk for a whole hour. Will you be my companion? And then we 'll have some coffee.'
'I've had some already,' Sanin observed, getting up; 'but I shall be very glad to have a walk with you.'
'Very well, give me your arm then; don't be afraid: your betrothed is not here—she won't see you.'
Sanin gave a constrained smile. He experienced a disagreeable sensation every time Maria Nikolaevna referred to Gemma. However, he made haste to bend towards her obediently. . . . Maria Nikolaevna's arm slipped slowly and softly into his arm, and glided over it, and seemed to cling tight to it.
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