saying
good-bye. And as she went out she said to Laptev:

"Will you see me home, Alexey Fyodorovitch?"

They walked along the street in silence, holding their hats, and
he, walking a little behind, tried to screen her from the wind. In
the lane it was more sheltered, and they walked side by side.

"Forgive me if I was not nice yesterday;" and her voice quavered
as though she were going to cry. "I was so wretched! I did not sleep
all night."

"I slept well all night," said Laptev, without looking at her; "but
that doesn't mean that I was happy. My life is broken. I'm deeply
unhappy, and after your refusal yesterday I go about like a man
poisoned. The most difficult thing was said yesterday. To-day I
feel no embarrassment and can talk to you frankly. I love you more
than my sister, more than my dead mother. . . . I can live without
my sister, and without my mother, and I have lived without them,
but life without you--is meaningless to me; I can't face it. . . ."

And now too, as usual, he guessed her intention.

He realised that she wanted to go back to what had happened the day
before, and with that object had asked him to accompany her, and
now was taking him home with her. But what could she add to her
refusal? What new idea had she in her head? From everything, from
her glances, from her smile, and even from her tone, from the way
she held her head and shoulders as she walked beside him, he saw
that, as before, she did not love him, that he was a stranger to
her. What more did she want to say?

Doctor Sergey Borisovitch was at home.

"You are very welcome. I'm always glad to see you, Fyodor Alexeyitch,"
he said, mixing up his Christian name and his father's. "Delighted,
delighted!"

He had never been so polite before, and Laptev saw that he knew of
his offer; he did not like that either. He was sitting now in the
drawing-room, and the room impressed him strangely, with its poor,
common decorations, its wretched pictures, and though there were
arm-chairs in it, and a huge lamp with a shade over it, it still
looked like an uninhabited place, a huge barn, and it was obvious
that no one could feel at home in such a room, except a man like
the doctor. The next room, almost twice as large, was called the
reception-room, and in it there were only rows of chairs, as though
for a dancing class. And while Laptev was sitting in the drawing-room
talking to the doctor about his sister, he began to be tortured by
a sus