the middle of the
room, and muttering, "Oh dear! It's better not to think!" threw himself
face downwards on the bed.

When Mariana returned to her room she found a note on the table
containing the following:

"I am sorry for you. You are ruining yourself. Think what you are doing.
Into what abysses are you throwing yourself with your eyes shut. For
whom and for what?--V."

There was a peculiarly fine fresh scent in the room; evidently
Valentina Mihailovna had only just left it. Mariana took a pen and wrote
underneath: "You need not be sorry for me. God knows which of us two
is more in need of pity. I only know that I wouldn't like to be in your
place for worlds.--M." She put the note on the table, not doubting that
it would fall into Valentina Mihailovna's hand.

On the following morning, Solomin, after seeing Nejdanov and definitely
declining to undertake the management of Sipiagin's factory, set out for
home. He mused all the way home, a thing that rarely occurred with
him; the motion of the carriage usually had a drowsy effect on him. He
thought of Mariana and of Nejdanov; it seemed to him that if he had been
in love--he, Solomin--he would have had quite a different air, would
have looked and spoken differently. "But," he thought, "such a thing has
never happened to me, so I can't tell what sort of an air I would have."
He recalled an Irish girl whom he had once seen in a shop behind a
counter; recalled her wonderful black hair, blue eyes, and thick lashes,
and how she had looked at him with a sad, wistful expression, and how he
had paced up and down the street before her window for a long time, how
excited he had been, and had kept asking himself if he should try and
get to know her. He was in London at the time, where he had been sent
by his employer with a sum of money to make various purchases. He very
nearly decided to remain in London and send back the money, so strong
was the impression produced on him by the beautiful Polly. (He had got
to know her name, one of the other girls had called her by it.) He had
mastered himself, however, and went back to his employer. Polly was more
beautiful than Mariana, but Mariana had the same sad, wistful expression
in her eyes... and Mariana was a Russian.

"But what am I doing?" Solomin exclaimed in an undertone, "bothering
about other men's brides!" and he shook back the collar of his coat, as
if he wanted to shake off all superfluous thoughts. Just then he drove
up