RUDIN
all is over; sometimes it winds its way into the heart like a serpent, and suddenly slips out of it again. . . . Yes, yes; it is the great problem. But who does love in our days? Who is so bold as to love?’
And Rudin grew pensive.
‘Why is it we have not seen Sergeï Pavlitch for so long?’ he asked suddenly.
Natalya blushed, and bent her head over her embroidery frame.
‘I don’t know,’ she murmured.
‘What a splendid, generous fellow he is!’ Rudin declared, standing up. ‘It is one of the best types of a Russian gentleman.’
Mlle. Boncourt gave him a sidelong look out of her little French eyes.
Rudin walked up and down the room.
‘Have you noticed,’ he began, turning sharply round on his heels, ‘that on the oak—and the oak is a strong tree—the old leaves only fall off when the new leaves begin to grow?’
‘Yes,’ answered Natalya slowly, ‘I have noticed it’
‘That is what happens to an old love in a strong heart; it is dead already, but still it
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