He could not sleep. It had no memories there to comfort him. He got up,
and went across the sitting-room to the room his lady had left so lately.
Alas! it was all dismantled of her beautiful things. The bed unmade and
piled with uncovered hotel pillows, and a large German eiderdown, on top
of folded blankets, it all looked ghastly and sad and cold. And more
depressed than ever he crept back to his own bed.
Next morning was grey--not raining, but dull grey clouds all over the sky.
Not a tempting prospect to spend it in a launch on the lake. A wind, too,
swept the water into small rough wavelets. Would she come? The uncertainty
was almost agony. He was waiting long before the time appointed, and
walked up and down anxiously scanning the direction towards Lucerne.
Yes, that was the launch making its way along, not a moment late. Oh! what
joy thrilled his being! He glowed all over--in ten minutes or less he
could clasp her hands.
But when the launch came in full view, he perceived no lady was
there--only Dmitry's black form stood alone by the chairs.
Paul's heart sank like lead. He could hardly contain his anxiety until the
servant stepped ashore and handed him a letter, and this was its contents:
"My beloved one--I am not well to-day--a foolish chill.
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