"
"From his thoughts, you say?"
"And that is natural enough in a Russian," she took me up. "In a young
Russian; so many of them are unfit for action, and yet unable to rest."
"And you think he is that sort of man?"
"No, I do not judge him. How could I, so suddenly? You asked for my
impression--I explain my impression. I--I--don't know the world, nor yet
the people in it; I have been too solitary--I am too young to trust my
own opinions."
"Trust your instinct," I advised her. "Most women trust to that, and
make no worse mistakes than men. In this case you have your brother's
letter to help you."
She drew a deep breath like a light sigh. "Unstained, lofty, and
solitary existences," she quoted as if to herself. But I caught the
wistful murmur distinctly.
"High praise," I whispered to her.
"The highest possible."
"So high that, like the award of happiness, it is more fit to come
only at the end of a life. But still no common or altogether unworthy
personality could have suggested such a confident exaggeration of praise
and..."
"Ah!" She interrupted me ardently. "And if you had only known the heart
from which that judgment has come!"
She ceased on that note, and for a space I reflected on the character of
the words which I perceived very well must tip the scale of the girl's
feelings in that young man's favour.
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