"Never mind. Better luck next time," Mariana said consolingly. "But I am
glad you see the humorous side of this, your first attempt. You were not
really bored, were you?"

"No, it was rather amusing. But I know that I shall think it all over
now and it will make me miserable."

"But I won't let you think about it! I will tell you everything I did.
Dinner will be here in a minute. By the way, I must tell you that
I washed the saucepan Tatiana cooked the soup in... I'll tell you
everything, every little detail."

And so she did. Nejdanov listened and could not take his eyes off her.
She stopped several times to ask why he looked at her so intently, but
he was silent.

After dinner she offered to read Spielhagen aloud to him, but had
scarcely got through one page when he got up suddenly and fell at her
feet. She stood up; he flung both his arms round her knees and began
uttering passionate, disconnected, and despairing words. He wanted to
die, he knew he would soon die... She did not stir, did not resist.
She calmly submitted to his passionate embraces, and calmly, even
affectionately, glanced down upon him. She laid both her hands on his
head, feverishly pressed to the fold of her dress, but her calmness had
a more powerful effect on him than if she had repulsed him. He got up
murmuring: "Forgive me, Mariana, for today and for yesterday. Tell me
again that you are prepared to wait until I am worthy of your love, and
forgive me."

"I gave you my word. I never change."

"Thank you, dear. Goodbye."

Nejdanov went out and Mariana locked the door of her room.

XXX

A FORTNIGHT later, in the same room, Nejdanov sat bending over his
three-legged table, writing to his friend Silin by the dim light of a
tallow candle. (It was long past midnight. Muddy garments lay scattered
on the sofa, on the floor, just where they had been thrown off. A fine
drizzly rain pattered against the window-panes and a strong, warm wind
moaned about the roof of the house.)

MY DEAR VLADIMIR,--I am writing to you without giving my address and
will send this letter by a messenger to a distant posting-station as my
being here is a secret, and to disclose it might mean the ruin not of
myself alone. It is enough for you to know that for the last two weeks
I have been living in a large factory together with Mariana. We ran away
from the Sipiagins on the day on which I last wrote to you. A friend has
given us shelter here. For convenienc