last, after passing through a long succession of rooms, young Von
Rabbek and the officers came into a small room where there was a
billiard-table. They began to play.

Ryabovitch, who had never played any game but cards, stood near the
billiard-table and looked indifferently at the players, while they
in unbuttoned coats, with cues in their hands, stepped about, made
puns, and kept shouting out unintelligible words.

The players took no notice of him, and only now and then one of
them, shoving him with his elbow or accidentally touching him with
the end of his cue, would turn round and say "Pardon!" Before the
first game was over he was weary of it, and began to feel he was
not wanted and in the way. . . . He felt disposed to return to the
drawing-room, and he went out.

On his way back he met with a little adventure. When he had gone
half-way he noticed he had taken a wrong turning. He distinctly
remembered that he ought to meet three sleepy footmen on his way,
but he had passed five or six rooms, and those sleepy figures seemed
to have vanished into the earth. Noticing his mistake, he walked
back a little way and turned to the right; he found himself in a
little dark room which he had not seen on his way to the billiard-room.
After standing there a little while, he resolutely opened the first
door that met his eyes and walked into an absolutely dark room.
Straight in front could be seen the crack in the doorway through
which there was a gleam of vivid light; from the other side of the
door came the muffled sound of a melancholy mazurka. Here, too, as
in the drawing-room, the windows were wide open and there was a
smell of poplars, lilac and roses. . . .

Ryabovitch stood still in hesitation. . . . At that moment, to his
surprise, he heard hurried footsteps and the rustling of a dress,
a breathless feminine voice whispered "At last!" And two soft,
fragrant, unmistakably feminine arms were clasped about his neck;
a warm cheek was pressed to his cheek, and simultaneously there was
the sound of a kiss. But at once the bestower of the kiss uttered
a faint shriek and skipped back from him, as it seemed to Ryabovitch,
with aversion. He, too, almost shrieked and rushed towards the gleam
of light at the door. . . .

When he went back into the drawing-room his heart was beating and
his hands were trembling so noticeably that he made haste to hide
them behind his back. At first he was tormented by shame and dread
that the