w in one's old age! My days will be shortened
by it! But I'd rather have it over than endure this agony. And all
that 'pour les beaux yeux d'un chenapan'--oh!" he moaned; and a wave of
hatred and fury arose in him as he thought of what would be said in the
town when every one knew. (And no doubt every one knew already.) Such a
feeling of rage possessed him that he would have liked to beat it into
her head, and make her understand what she had done. These women never
understand. "It is quite near Everything," suddenly came to his mind,
and getting out his notebook, he found her address. Vera Ivanovna
Silvestrova, Kukonskaya Street, Abromov's house. She was living under
this name. He left the gardens and called a cab.

"Whom do you wish to see, sir?" asked the midwife, Maria Ivanovna, when
he stepped on the narrow landing of the steep, stuffy staircase.

"Does Madame Silvestrova live here?"

"Vera Ivanovna? Yes; please come in. She has gone out; she's gone to the
shop round the corner. But she'll be back in a minute."

Michael Ivanovich followed the stout figure of Maria Ivanovna into
a tiny parlour, and from the next room came the screams of a baby,
sounding cross and peevish, which filled him with disgust. They cut him
like a knife.

Maria Ivanovna apologised, and went into the room, and he could hear her
soothing the child. The child became quiet, and she returned.

"That is her baby; she'll be back in a minute. You are a friend of hers,
I suppose?"

"Yes--a friend--but I think I had better come back later on," said
Michael Ivanovich, preparing to go. It was too unbearable, this
preparation to meet her, and any explanation seemed impossible.

He had just turned to leave, when he heard quick, light steps on the
stairs, and he recognised Lisa's voice.

"Maria Ivanovna--has he been crying while I've been gone--I was--"

Then she saw her father. The parcel she was carrying fell from her
hands.

"Father!" she cried, and stopped in the doorway, white and trembling.

He remained motionless, staring at her. She had grown so thin. Her eyes
were larger, her nose sharper, her hands worn and bony. He neither
knew what to do, nor what to say. He forgot all his grief about his
dishonour. He only felt sorrow, infinite sorrow for her; sorrow for her
thinness, and for her miserable rough clothing; and most of all, for her
pitiful face and imploring eyes.

"Father--forgive," she said, moving towards him.

"Forgive--forg