nd
your house, an interminable gulf that cannot be crossed. You are an
intelligent woman, don't you feel it too? And if you hate me, what do
you think I feel towards you? We won't go into unnecessary details, it's
too obvious."

"Sortez, sortez, vous dis-je..." Valentina Mihailovna repeated, stamping
her pretty little foot.

Mariana took a few steps towards the door.

"I will rid you of my presence directly, only do you know what,
Valentina Mihailovna? They say that in Racine's 'Bajazet' even Rachel's
sortez! was not effective, and you don't come anywhere near her! Then,
what was it you said... Je suis une honnete femme, je l'ai et le serai
toujours? But I am convinced that I am far more honest than you are!
Goodbye!"

Mariana went out quickly and Valentina Mihailovna sprang up from her
chair. She wanted to scream, to cry, but did not know what to scream
about, and the tears would not come at her bidding.

So she fanned herself with her pocket-handkerchief, but the strong scent
of it affected her nerves still more. She felt miserable, insulted...
She was conscious of a certain amount of truth in what she had just
heard, but how could anyone be so unjust to her? "Am I really so bad?"
she thought, and looked at herself in a mirror hanging opposite between
two windows. The looking-glass reflected a charming face, somewhat
excited, the colour coming and going, but still a fascinating face, with
wonderful soft, velvety eyes...

"I? I am bad?" she thought again.... "With such eyes?"

But at this moment her husband entered the room and she again covered
her face with her pocket-handkerchief.

"What is the matter with you?" he asked anxiously. "What is the matter,
Valia?" (He had invented this pet name, but only allowed himself to use
it when they were quite alone, particularly in the country.)

At first she declared that there was nothing the matter, but ended by
turning around in her chair in a very charming and touching manner and,
flinging her arms round his shoulders (he stood bending over her) and
hiding her face in the slit of his waistcoat, told him everything.
Without any hypocrisy or any interested motive on her part, she tried
to excuse Mariana as much as she could, putting all the blame on her
extreme youth, her passionate temperament, and the defects of her early
education. In the same way she also, without any hidden motive, blamed
herself a great deal, saying, "With a daughter of mine this would
never