a tangle within her which
it was as difficult to unravel as to count a flock of sparrows
rapidly flying by. From the fact that she was not overjoyed to see
her husband, that she did not like his manner at dinner, she concluded
all of a sudden that she was beginning to hate her husband.

Andrey Ilyitch, languid with hunger and exhaustion, fell upon the
sausage while waiting for the soup to be brought in, and ate it
greedily, munching noisily and moving his temples.

"My goodness!" thought Sofya Petrovna. "I love and respect him, but
. . . why does he munch so repulsively?"

The disorder in her thoughts was no less than the disorder in her
feelings. Like all persons inexperienced in combating unpleasant
ideas, Madame Lubyantsev did her utmost not to think of her trouble,
and the harder she tried the more vividly Ilyin, the sand on his
knees, the fluffy clouds, the train, stood out in her imagination.

"And why did I go there this afternoon like a fool?" she thought,
tormenting herself. "And am I really so weak that I cannot depend
upon myself?"

Fear magnifies danger. By the time Andrey Ilyitch was finishing the
last course, she had firmly made up her mind to tell her husband
everything and to flee from danger!

"I've something serious to say to you, Andrey," she began after
dinner while her husband was taking off his coat and boots to lie
down for a nap.

"Well?"

"Let us leave this place!"

"H'm! . . . Where shall we go? It's too soon to go back to town."

"No; for a tour or something of that sort.

"For a tour . . ." repeated the notary, stretching. "I dream of
that myself, but where are we to get the money, and to whom am I
to leave the office?"

And thinking a little he added:

"Of course, you must be bored. Go by yourself if you like."

Sofya Petrovna agreed, but at once reflected that Ilyin would be
delighted with the opportunity, and would go with her in the same
train, in the same compartment. . . . She thought and looked at her
husband, now satisfied but still languid. For some reason her eyes
rested on his feet--miniature, almost feminine feet, clad in
striped socks; there was a thread standing out at the tip of each
sock.

Behind the blind a bumble-bee was beating itself against the
window-pane and buzzing. Sofya Petrovna looked at the threads on
the socks, listened to the bee, and pictured how she would set off
. . . . _vis-a-vis_ Ilyin would sit, day and night, never taking his
eyes of