e squeezed close to him. They went out on the steps. Pyotr
Mihalitch said good-bye, got on his horse, and set off at a walk;
Zina and Vlassitch walked a little way with him. It was still and
warm, with a delicious smell of hay; stars were twinkling brightly
between the clouds. Vlassitch's old garden, which had seen so many
gloomy stories in its time, lay slumbering in the darkness, and for
some reason it was mournful riding through it.

"Zina and I to-day after dinner spent some really exalted moments,"
said Vlassitch. "I read aloud to her an excellent article on the
question of emigration. You must read it, brother! You really must.
It's remarkable for its lofty tone. I could not resist writing a
letter to the editor to be forwarded to the author. I wrote only a
single line: 'I thank you and warmly press your noble hand.'"

Pyotr Mihalitch was tempted to say, "Don't meddle in what does not
concern you," but he held his tongue.

Vlassitch walked by his right stirrup and Zina by the left; both
seemed to have forgotten that they had to go home. It was damp, and
they had almost reached Koltovitch's copse. Pyotr Mihalitch felt
that they were expecting something from him, though they hardly
knew what it was, and he felt unbearably sorry for them. Now as
they walked by the horse with submissive faces, lost in thought,
he had a deep conviction that they were unhappy, and could not be
happy, and their love seemed to him a melancholy, irreparable
mistake. Pity and the sense that he could do nothing to help them
reduced him to that state of spiritual softening when he was ready
to make any sacrifice to get rid of the painful feeling of sympathy.

"I'll come over sometimes for a night," he said.

But it sounded as though he were making a concession, and did not
satisfy him. When they stopped near Koltovitch's copse to say
good-bye, he bent down to Zina, touched her shoulder, and said:

"You are right, Zina! You have done well." To avoid saying more and
bursting into tears, he lashed his horse and galloped into the wood.
As he rode into the darkness, he looked round and saw Vlassitch and
Zina walking home along the road--he taking long strides, while
she walked with a hurried, jerky step beside him--talking eagerly
about something.

"I am an old woman!" thought Pyotr Mihalitch. "I went to solve the
question and I have only made it more complicated--there it is!"

He was heavy at heart. When he got out of the copse he rode