Twenty paces from the copse the road was crossed by a small narrow
bridge with posts at the corners, which had always served as a
resting-place for the Kuznetsovs and their guests on their evening
walks. From there those who liked could mimic the forest echo, and
one could see the road vanish in the dark woodland track.

"Well, here is the bridge!" said Ognev. "Here you must turn back."

Vera stopped and drew a breath.

"Let us sit down," she said, sitting down on one of the posts.
"People generally sit down when they say good-bye before starting
on a journey."

Ognev settled himself beside her on his bundle of books and went
on talking. She was breathless from the walk, and was looking, not
at Ivan Alexeyitch, but away into the distance so that he could not
see her face.

"And what if we meet in ten years' time?" he said. "What shall we
be like then? You will be by then the respectable mother of a family,
and I shall be the author of some weighty statistical work of no
use to anyone, as thick as forty thousand such works. We shall meet
and think of old days. . . . Now we are conscious of the present;
it absorbs and excites us, but when we meet we shall not remember
the day, nor the month, nor even the year in which we saw each other
for the last time on this bridge. You will be changed, perhaps
. . . . Tell me, will you be different?"

Vera started and turned her face towards him.