ch as he put his daughter into the carriage.

They drove off.

"I was at the cemetery yesterday," Startsev began. "How ungenerous
and merciless it was on your part! . . ."

"You went to the cemetery?"

"Yes, I went there and waited almost till two o'clock. I suffered
. . ."

"Well, suffer, if you cannot understand a joke."

Ekaterina Ivanovna, pleased at having so cleverly taken in a man
who was in love with her, and at being the object of such intense
love, burst out laughing and suddenly uttered a shriek of terror,
for, at that very minute, the horses turned sharply in at the gate
of the club, and the carriage almost tilted over. Startsev put his
arm round Ekaterina Ivanovna's waist; in her fright she nestled up
to him, and he could not restrain himself, and passionately kissed
her on the lips and on the chin, and hugged her more tightly.

"That's enough," she said drily.

And a minute later she was not in the carriage, and a policeman
near the lighted entrance of the club shouted in a detestable voice
to Panteleimon:

"What are you stopping for, you crow? Drive on."

Startsev drove home, but soon afterwards returned. Attired in another
man's dress suit and a stiff white tie which kept sawing at his
neck and trying to slip away from the collar, he was sitting at
midnight in the club drawing-room, and was saying with enthusiasm
to Ekaterina Ivanovna.

"Ah, how little people know who have never loved! It seems to me
that no one has ever yet written of love truly, and I doubt whether
this tender, joyful, agonising feeling can be described, and any
one who has once experienced it would not attempt to put it into
words. What is the use of preliminaries and introductions? What is
the use of unnecessary fine words? My love is immeasurable. I beg,
I beseech you," Startsev brought out at last, "be my wife!"

"Dmitri Ionitch," said Ekaterina Ivanovna, with a very grave face,
after a moment's thought--"Dmitri Ionitch, I am very grateful to
you for the honour. I respect you, but . . ." she got up and continued
standing, "but, forgive me, I cannot be your wife. Let us talk
seriously. Dmitri Ionitch, you know I love art beyond everything
in life. I adore music; I love it frantically; I have dedicated my
whole life to it. I want to be an artist; I want fame, success,
freedom, and you want me to go on living in this town, to go on
living this empty, useless life, which has become insufferable to
me. To become a wife-