XVII
“And is it,” meditates Eugene.
“And is it she? It must be—no—
How! from the waste of steppes unseen,”—
And the eternal lorgnette through
Frequent and rapid doth his glance
Seek the forgotten countenance
Familiar to him long ago.
“Inform me, prince, pray dost thou know
The lady in the crimson cap
Who with the Spanish envoy speaks?”—
The prince’s eye Onegin seeks:
“Ah! long the world hath missed thy shape!
But stop! I will present thee, if
You choose.”—“But who is she?”—“My wife.”