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"
"Be seated," said Foma.
"I will."
She sat down on the lounge about two steps away from him. Foma
saw the glitter of her eyes, he saw a smile on her full lips. It
seemed to him that this smile of hers was not at all like that
other smile before--this smile seemed plaintive, sad. This smile
encouraged him; he breathed with less difficulty at the sight of
these eyes, which, on meeting his own, suddenly glanced down on
the floor. But he did not know what to say to this woman and for
about two minutes both were silent. It was a heavy, awkward silence.
She began to speak:
"You must be feeling lonesome here all alone?"
"Yes," answered Foma.
"And do you like our place here?" asked the woman in a low voice.
"It is nice. There are many woods here."
And again they became silent.
"The river, if you like, is more beautiful than the Volga,"
uttered Foma, with an effort.
"I was on the Volga."
"Where?"
"In the city of Simbirsk."
"Simbirsk?" repeated Foma like an echo, feeling that he was again
unable to say a word.


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