"Forgive me for coming, but I couldn't pass the day without seeing you," he went on, speaking French, as he always did to avoid using the stiff Russian plural form, so impossibly frigid between them, and the dangerously intimate singular.

"Forgive you? I'm so glad!" "But you're ill or worried," he went on, not letting go her hands and bending over her.

" What were you thinking of?" "Always the same thing," she said, with a smile.

She spoke the truth.