e, I am in the mood now when one wants to
be alone. And, if you please, Vladimir Ivanitch, another time you
want to come into my room, be so good as to give a knock at the
door."

That "be so good" had a peculiar, unfeminine sound. I went away.
My accursed Petersburg mood came back, and all my dreams were crushed
and crumpled up like leaves by the heat. I felt I was alone again
and there was no nearness between us. I was no more to her than
that cobweb to that palm-tree, which hangs on it by chance and which
will be torn off and carried away by the wind. I walked about the
square where the band was playing, went into the Casino; there I
looked at overdressed and heavily perfumed women, and every one of
them glanced at me as though she would say: "You are alone; that's
all right." Then I went out on the terrace and looked for a long
time at the sea. There was not one sail on the horizon. On the left
bank, in the lilac-coloured mist, there were mountains, gardens,
towers, and houses, the sun was sparkling over it all, but it was
all alien, indifferent, an incomprehensible tangle.

XVII

She used as before to come into my room in the morning to coffee,
but we no longer dined together, as she said she was not hungry;
and she lived only on coffee, tea, and various trifles such as
oranges and caramels.

And we no longer had conversations in the evening. I don't know why
it was like this. Ever since the day when I had found her in tears
she had treated me somehow lightly, at times casually, even ironically,
and for some reason called me "My good sir." What had before seemed
to her terrible, heroic, marvellous, and had stirred her envy and
enthusiasm, did not touch her now at all, and usually after listening
to me, she stretched and said:

"Yes, 'great things were done in days of yore,' my good sir."

It sometimes happened even that I did not see her for days together.
I would knock timidly and guiltily at her door and get no answer;
I would knock again--still silence. . . . I would stand near the
door and listen; then the chambermaid would pass and say coldly,
"_Madame est partie._" Then I would walk about the passages of the
hotel, walk and walk. . . . English people, full-bosomed ladies,
waiters in swallow-tails. . . . And as I keep gazing at the long
striped rug that stretches the whole length of the corridor, the
idea occurs to me that I am playing in the life of this woman a
strange, probably false part, and that