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As he followed his wife through the door Sergey Modestovich said rather indifferently, in an incidental way, laying no stress on his words: "Don't you think that it would be well for the little girl if she were sometimes without your company? Merely, you see, that the child should feel its own individuality," he explained in answer to Serafima Aleksandrovna's puzzled glance.
After their marriage there was nothing in the manner of Sergey Modestovich to suggest anything wrong to his wife. Later, however, when his wife was about to have a child, Sergey Modestovich established connexions elsewhere of a light and temporary nature.
Perhaps it was because he himself loved the cold he loved to drink cold water, and to breathe cold air. He was always fresh and cool, with a frigid smile, and wherever he passed cold currents seemed to move in the air. The Nesletyevs, Sergey Modestovich and Serafima Aleksandrovna, had married without love or calculation, because it was the accepted thing.
"Sima, my dear, don't agitate yourself," said Sergey Modestovich in a whisper. "You must resign yourself to your fate." "She'll be up in a minute," persisted Serafima Aleksandrovna, her eyes fixed on the dead little girl. Sergey Modestovich looked round him cautiously: he was afraid of the unseemly and of the ridiculous. "Sima, don't agitate yourself," he repeated.
Something rattled in her throat; Lelechka opened and again closed her rapidly paling lips, and died. Serafima Aleksandrovna was in dumb despair as she left Lelechka, and went out of the room. She met her husband. "Lelechka is dead," she said in a quiet, dull voice. Sergey Modestovich looked anxiously at her pale face. He was struck by the strange stupor in her formerly animated handsome features.
Lelechka was dressed, placed in a little coffin, and carried into the parlour. Serafima Aicksandrovna was standing by the coffin and looking dully at her dead child. Sergey Modestovich went to his wife and, consoling her with cold, empty words, tried to draw her away from the coffin. Seranma Aleksandrovna smiled. "Go away," she said quietly. "Lelechka is playing. She'll be up in a minute."
One thing Sergey Modestovich had not become reconciled to, and this was his wife's almost continuous presence in the nursery. "It's just as I thought... I knew that I'd find you here," he said with a derisive and condescending smile. They left the nursery together.
She pulled her mother by her hands to the middle of the room, they were merry and they laughed; and Lelechka again hid her head against her mother's knees, and went on lisping and lisping, without end, her sweet little words, so fascinating yet so awkward. Sergey Modestovich was coming at this moment toward the nursery.
Even Fedosya felt abashed, now for her mistress, now for herself. Serafima Aleksandrovna at once became calm and apparently cold and this mood communicated itself to the little girl, who ceased to laugh, but looked instead, silently and intently, at her father. Sergey Modestovich gave a swift glance round the room.
"This would be a miracle, and miracles do not happen in the nineteenth century." No sooner had he said these words than Sergey Modestovich felt their irrelevance to what had happened. He was confused and annoyed. He took his wife by the arm, and cautiously led her away from the coffin. She did not oppose him. Her face seemed tranquil and her eyes were dry.
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