"
Mrs. Haldin had not made the slightest allusion to her son for the last
week or more. She sat, as usual, in the arm-chair by the window, looking
out silently on that hopeless stretch of the Boulevard des Philosophes.
When she spoke, a few lifeless words, it was of indifferent, trivial
things.
"For anyone who knows what the poor soul is thinking of, that sort of
talk is more painful than her silence. But that is bad too; I can hardly
endure it, and I dare not break it."
Miss Haldin sighed, refastening a button of her glove which had come
undone. I knew well enough what a hard time of it she must be having.
The stress, its causes, its nature, would have undermined the health
of an Occidental girl; but Russian natures have a singular power of
resistance against the unfair strains of life. Straight and supple, with
a short jacket open on her black dress, which made her figure appear
more slender and her fresh but colourless face more pale, she compelled
my wonder and admiration.
"I can't stay a moment longer. You ought to come soon to see mother. You
know she calls you '_L'ami._' It is an excellent name, and she really
means it. And now _au revoir_; I must run."
She glanced vaguely down the broad walk--the hand she put out to me
eluded my grasp by an unexpected upward movement, and rested upon my
shoulder.
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