h a tile was about to descend upon the elegant and decorous public
now assembled to hear the music.

In order to pass from the Vauxhall to the band-stand, the visitor has
to descend two or three steps. Just at these steps the group paused, as
though it feared to proceed further; but very quickly one of the three
ladies, who formed its apex, stepped forward into the charmed circle,
followed by two members of her suite.

One of these was a middle-aged man of very respectable appearance, but
with the stamp of parvenu upon him, a man whom nobody knew, and who
evidently knew nobody. The other follower was younger and far less
respectable-looking.

No one else followed the eccentric lady; but as she descended the steps
she did not even look behind her, as though it were absolutely the same
to her whether anyone were following or not. She laughed and talked
loudly, however, just as before. She was dressed with great taste, but
with rather more magnificence than was needed for the occasion, perhaps.

She walked past the orchestra, to where an open carriage was waiting,
near the road.

The prince had not seen HER for more than three months. All these days
since his arrival from Petersburg he had intended to pay her a visit,
but some mysterious presentiment had restrained him. He could not
picture to himself what impression this meeting with her would make upon
him, though he had often tried to imagine it, with fear and trembling.
One fact was quite certain, and that was that the meeting would be
painful.

Several times during the last six months he had recalled the effect
which the first sight of this face had had upon him, when he only saw
its portrait. He recollected well that even the portrait face had left
but too painful an impression.

That month in the provinces, when he had seen this woman nearly every
day, had affected him so deeply that he could not now look back upon
it calmly. In the very look of this woman there was something which
tortured him. In conversation with Rogojin he had attributed this
sensation to pity--immeasurable pity, and this was the truth. The sight
of the portrait face alone had filled his heart full of the agony of
real sympathy; and this feeling of sympathy, nay, of actual SUFFERING,
for her, had never left his heart since that hour, and was still in full
force. Oh yes, and more powerful than ever!

But the prince was not satisfied with what he had said to Rogojin. Only
at this moment,