as there had been in her old room, and a little lamp was burning
before it, and on the table were all her indispensable properties. The
pack of cards, the little looking-glass, the song-book, even a milk
loaf. Besides these there were two books with coloured pictures--one,
extracts from a popular book of travels, published for juvenile reading,
the other a collection of very light, edifying tales, for the most part
about the days of chivalry, intended for Christmas presents or school
reading. She had, too, an album of photographs of various sorts.

Marya Timofyevna was, of course, expecting the visitor, as the captain
had announced. But when Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch went in, she was asleep,
half reclining on the sofa, propped on a woolwork cushion. Her visitor
closed the door after him noiselessly, and, standing still, scrutinised
the sleeping figure.

The captain had been romancing when he told Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch she
had been dressing herself up. She was wearing the same dark dress as on
Sunday at Varvara Petrovna's. Her hair was done up in the same little
close knot at the back of her head; her long thin neck was exposed
in the same way. The black shawl Varvara Petrovna had given her lay
carefully folded on the sofa. She was coarsely rouged and powdered as
before. Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch did not stand there more than a minute.
She suddenly waked up, as though she were conscious of his eyes
fixed upon her; she opened her eyes, and quickly drew herself up.
But something strange must have happened to her visitor: he remained
standing at the same place by the door. With a fixed and searching
glance he looked mutely and persistently into her face. Perhaps that
look was too grim, perhaps there was an expression of aversion in it,
even a malignant enjoyment of her fright--if it were not a fancy left by
her dreams; but suddenly, after almost a moment of expectation, the poor
woman's face wore a look of absolute terror; it twitched convulsively;
she lifted her trembling hands and suddenly burst into tears, exactly
like a frightened child; in another moment she would have screamed. But
Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch pulled himself together; his face changed in one
instant, and he went up to the table with the most cordial and amiable
smile.

"I'm sorry, Marya Timofyevna, I frightened you coming in suddenly when
you were asleep," he said, holding out his hand to her.

The sound of his caressing words produced their effect. Her