her. In confusion, not knowing what to do, I fell on my knees at the edge of the path. She was so pale, such bitter suffering, such intense weariness, was expressed in every feature of her face, that it sent a pang to my heart, and I muttered unconsciously, ‘What is the matter?’

Zina�da stretched out her head, picked a blade of grass, bit it and flung it away from her.

‘You love me very much?’ she asked at last. ‘Yes.’

I made no answer – indeed, what need was there to answer?

‘Yes,’ she repeated, looking at me as before. ‘That’s so. The same eyes,’ – she went on; sank into thought, and hid her face in her hands. ‘Everything’s grown so loathsome to me,’