It is a warm evening--a very warm evening." He pressed an old silk pocket-handkerchief to his moist brow, the pocket-handkerchief which he always had about him, freshly ironed and smoothly folded, on the day when he expected his friends.

Vjera, her face pale with distress, passed her arm through his and made as though she would walk with him down the gentle slope of the street, which leads in the direction of the older city.

He suffered himself to be led a few steps in silence.
"Where are you going, Vjera ?" he asked, stopping again and looking into her face.
"Wherever you like," she said, trying to speak cheerfully.

She saw that something terrible was happening, and it was only by a desperate effort that she controlled the violent hysterical emotion that rose like a great lump in her throat.
"Ah, that is it, Vjera," he answered.

"That is it.