stepped
up to Groholsky and, screwing his face into a senseless grimace
like a smile, gave him his hand. Groholsky shook the soft perspiring
hand and shuddered all over as though he had crushed a cold frog
in his fist.

"Good evening," he muttered.

"How are you?" the husband brought out in a faint husky, almost
inaudible voice, and he sat down opposite Groholsky, straightening
his collar at the back of his neck.

Again, an agonising silence followed . . . but that silence was no
longer so stupid. . . . The first step, most difficult and colourless,
was over.

All that was left now was for one of the two to depart in search
of matches or on some such trifling errand. Both longed intensely
to get away. They sat still, not looking at one another, and pulled
at their beards while they ransacked their troubled brains for some
means of escape from their horribly awkward position. Both were
perspiring. Both were unbearably miserable and both were devoured
by hatred. They longed to begin the tussle but how were they to
begin and which was to begin first? If only she would have gone
out!

"I saw you yesterday at the Assembly Hall," muttered Bugrov (that
was the husband's name).

"Yes, I was there . . . the ball . . . did you dance?"

"M'm . . . yes . . . with that . . . with the younger Lyukovtsky
. . . . She dances heavily. . . . She dances impossibly. She is a
great chatterbox." (Pause.) "She is never tired of talking."

"Yes. . . . It was slow. I saw you too. . ."

Groholsky accidentally glanced at Bugrov. . . . He caught the
shifting eyes of the deceived husband and could not bear it. He got
up quickly, quickly seized Bugrov's hand, shook it, picked up his
hat, and walked towards the door, conscious of his own back. He
felt as though thousands of eyes were looking at his back. It is a
feeling known to the actor who has been hissed and is making his
exit from the stage, and to the young dandy who has received a blow
on the back of the head and is being led away in charge of a
policeman.

As soon as the sound of Groholsky's steps had died away and the
door in the hall creaked, Bugrov leapt up, and after making two or
three rounds of the drawing-room, strolled up to his wife. The
kittenish face puckered up and began blinking its eyes as though
expecting a slap. Her husband went up to her, and with a pale,
distorted face, with arms, head, and shoulders shaking, stepped on
her dress and knocked her knees with hi