ag,
and there was fifteen roubles in it. I borrowed it from mamma."

She was crying in a most genuine way, like a little girl, and not
only her handkerchief, but even her gloves, were wet with tears.

"It can't be helped!" said the doctor. "If he's lost it, he's lost
it, and it's no good worrying over it. Calm yourself; I want to
talk to you."

"I am not a millionaire to lose money like that. He says he'll pay
it back, but I don't believe him; he's poor . . ."

Her husband begged her to calm herself and to listen to him, but
she kept on talking of the student and of the fifteen roubles she
had lost.

"Ach! I'll give you twenty-five roubles to-morrow if you'll only
hold your tongue!" he said irritably.

"I must take off my things!" she said, crying. "I can't talk seriously
in my fur coat! How strange you are!"

He helped her off with her coat and overboots, detecting as he did
so the smell of the white wine she liked to drink with oysters (in
spite of her etherealness she ate and drank a great deal). She went
into her room and came back soon after, having changed her things
and powdered her face, though her eyes still showed traces of tears.
She sat down, retreating into her light, lacy dressing-gown, and
in the mass of billowy pink her husband could see nothing but her
hair, which she had let down, and her little foot wearing a slipper.

"What do you want to talk about?" she asked, swinging herself in a
rocking-chair.

"I happened to see this;" and he handed her the telegram.

She read it and shrugged her shoulders.

"Well?" she said, rocking herself faster. "That's the usual New
Year's greeting and nothing else. There are no secrets in it."

"You are reckoning on my not knowing English. No, I don't know it;
but I have a dictionary. That telegram is from Riss; he drinks to
the health of his beloved and sends you a thousand kisses. But let
us leave that," the doctor went on hurriedly. "I don't in the least
want to reproach you or make a scene. We've had scenes and reproaches
enough; it's time to make an end of them. . . . This is what I want
to say to you: you are free, and can live as you like."

There was a silence. She began crying quietly.

"I set you free from the necessity of lying and keeping up pretences,"
Nikolay Yevgrafitch continued. "If you love that young man, love
him; if you want to go abroad to him, go. You are young, healthy,
and I am a wreck, and haven't long to live. In short . . . yo