Irene was coming.
A sound of young voices in the quiet road; then the shimmer of a bright costume, the gleam of a face all health and charm and merriment.

Irene came into the garden, followed by her brother, and behind them Olga.
Her voice woke the dull house; of a sudden it was alive, responding to the cheerful mood of its inhabitants.

The rooms had a new appearance; sunlight seemed to penetrate to every shadowed comer; colours were brighter, too familiar objects became interesting.

The dining-room table, commonly so uninviting, gleamed as for a festival.

Irene's eyes fell on everything and diffused her own happy spirit.