ht cart, smoked a cigar, and
when at the third mile, at the bend in the road, the Kirsanovs' farm,
with its new house, could be seen in a long line, he merely spat, and
muttering, 'Cursed snobs!' wrapped himself closer in his cloak.

Pavel Petrovitch was soon better; but he had to keep his bed about a
week. He bore his captivity, as he called it, pretty patiently, though
he took great pains over his toilette, and had everything scented with
eau-de-cologne. Nikolai Petrovitch used to read him the journals;
Fenitchka waited on him as before, brought him lemonade, soup, boiled
eggs, and tea; but she was overcome with secret dread whenever she went
into his room. Pavel Petrovitch's unexpected action had alarmed every
one in the house, and her more than any one; Prokofitch was the only
person not agitated by it; he discoursed upon how gentlemen in his day
used to fight, but only with real gentlemen; low curs like that they
used to order a horsewhipping in the stable for their insolence.

Fenitchka's conscience scarcely reproached her; but she was tormented
at times by the thought of the real cause of the quarrel; and Pavel
Petrovitch too looked at her so strangely ... that even when her back
was turned, she felt his eyes upon her. She grew thinner from constant
inward agitation, and, as is always the way, became still more
charming.

One day--the incident took place in the morning--Pavel Petrovitch felt
better and moved from his bed to the sofa, while Nikolai Petrovitch,
having satisfied himself he was better, went off to the
threshing-floor. Fenitchka brought him a cup of tea, and setting it
down on a little table, was about to withdraw. Pavel Petrovitch
detained her.

'Where are you going in such a hurry, Fedosya Nikolaevna?' he began;
'are you busy?'

'... I have to pour out tea.'

'Dunyasha will do that without you; sit a little while with a poor
invalid. By the way, I must have a little talk with you.'

Fenitchka sat down on the edge of an easy-chair, without speaking.

'Listen,' said Pavel Petrovitch, tugging at his moustaches; 'I have
long wanted to ask you something; you seem somehow afraid of me?'

'I?'

'Yes, you. You never look at me, as though your conscience were not at
rest.'

Fenitchka crimsoned, but looked at Pavel Petrovitch. He impressed her
as looking strange, and her heart began throbbing slowly.

'Is your conscience at rest?' he questioned her.

'Why should it not be at rest?' she falter