ed with laughter. Something small
in the drawing-room fell off the table and was broken. Orlov went
out into the hall by another door, and, looking round him nervously,
he hurriedly put on his great-coat and went out.

Half an hour passed, an hour, and she was still weeping. I remembered
that she had no father or mother, no relations, and here she was
living between a man who hated her and Polya, who robbed her--and
how desolate her life seemed to me! I do not know why, but I went
into the drawing-room to her. Weak and helpless, looking with her
lovely hair like an embodiment of tenderness and grace, she was in
anguish, as though she were ill; she was lying on a couch, hiding
her face, and quivering all over.

"Madam, shouldn't I fetch a doctor?" I asked gently.

"No, there's no need . . . it's nothing," she said, and she looked
at me with her tear-stained eyes. "I have a little headache. . . .
Thank you."

I went out, and in the evening she was writing letter after letter,
and sent me out first to Pekarsky, then to Gruzin, then to Kukushkin,
and finally anywhere I chose, if only I could find Orlov and give
him the letter. Every time I came back with the letter she scolded
me, entreated me, thrust money into my hand--as though she were
in a fever. And all the night she did not sleep, but sat in the
drawing-room, talking to herself.

Orlov returned to dinner next day, and they were reconciled.

The first Thursday afterwards Orlov complained to his friends of
the intolerable life he led; he smoked a great deal, and said with
irritation:

"It is no life at all; it's the rack. Tears, wailing, intellectual
conversations, begging for forgiveness, again tears and wailing;
and the long and the short of it is that I have no flat of my own
now. I am wretched, and I make her wretched. Surely I haven't to
live another month or two like this? How can I? But yet I may have
to."

"Why don't you speak, then?" said Pekarsky.

"I've tried, but I can't. One can boldly tell the truth, whatever
it may be, to an independent, rational man; but in this case one
has to do with a creature who has no will, no strength of character,
and no logic. I cannot endure tears; they disarm me. When she cries,
I am ready to swear eternal love and cry myself."

Pekarsky did not understand; he scratched his broad forehead in
perplexity and said:

"You really had better take another flat for her. It's so simple!"

"She wants me, not the flat.