are afraid
to show me to your friends; there's no greater infliction for you
than to go about with me in the street. . . . Isn't that true? Why
haven't you introduced me to your father or your cousin all this
time? Why is it? No, I am sick of it at last," cried Zinaida
Fyodorovna, stamping. "I demand what is mine by right. You must
present me to your father."

"If you want to know him, go and present yourself. He receives
visitors every morning from ten till half-past."

"How base you are!" said Zinaida Fyodorovna, wringing her hands in
despair. "Even if you are not sincere, and are not saying what you
think, I might hate you for your cruelty. Oh, how base you are!"

"We keep going round and round and never reach the real point. The
real point is that you made a mistake, and you won't acknowledge
it aloud. You imagined that I was a hero, and that I had some
extraordinary ideas and ideals, and it has turned out that I am a
most ordinary official, a cardplayer, and have no partiality for
ideas of any sort. I am a worthy representative of the rotten world
from which you have run away because you were revolted with its
triviality and emptiness. Recognise it and be just: don't be indignant
with me, but with yourself, as it is your mistake, and not mine."

"Yes, I admit I was mistaken."

"Well, that's all right, then. We've reached that point at last,
thank God. Now hear something more, if you please: I can't rise to
your level--I am too depraved; you can't descend to my level,
either, for you are too exalted. So there is only one thing left
to do. . . ."

"What?" Zinaida Fyodorovna asked quickly, holding her breath and
turning suddenly as white as a sheet of paper.

"To call logic to our aid. . . ."

"Georgy, why are you torturing me?" Zinaida Fyodorovna said suddenly
in Russian in a breaking voice. "What is it for? Think of my misery
. . . ."

Orlov, afraid of tears, went quickly into his study, and I don't
know why--whether it was that he wished to cause her extra pain,
or whether he remembered it was usually done in such cases--he
locked the door after him. She cried out and ran after him with a
rustle of her skirt.

"What does this mean?" she cried, knocking at his door. "What . . .
what does this mean?" she repeated in a shrill voice breaking
with indignation. "Ah, so this is what you do! Then let me tell you
I hate you, I despise you! Everything is over between us now."

I heard hysterical weeping mingl