After leaving his daughter at school, Gurov went on to the Slaviansky Bazaar.  He took off his fur coat below, went upstairs, and softly knocked at the door.  Anna Sergeyevna, wearing his favourite grey dress, exhausted by the journey and the suspense, had been expecting him since the evening before.  She was pale; she looked at him, and did not smile, and he had hardly come in when she fell on his breast.  Their kiss was slow and prolonged, as though they had not met for two years.

“Well, how are you getting on there?” he asked.  “What news?”

“Wait; I’ll tell you directly. . . .  I can’t talk.”

She could not speak; she was crying.  She turned away from him, and pressed her handkerchief to her eyes.

“Let her have her cry out.  I’ll sit down and wait,” he thought, and he sat down in an arm-chair.

Then he rang and asked for tea to be brought him, and while he drank his tea she remained standing at the window with her back to him.  She was crying from emotion, from the miserable consciousness that their life was so hard for them; they could only meet in secret, hiding themselves from people, like thieves!  Was not their life shattered?

“Come, do stop!” he said.

It was evident to him that this love of theirs would not soon be over, that he could not see the end of it.  Anna Sergeyevna grew more and more attached to him.  She adored him, and it was unthinkable to say to her that it was bound to have an end some day; besides, she would not have believed it!

He went up to her and took her by the shoulders to say something affectionate and cheering, and at that moment he saw himself in the looking-glass.

His hair was already beginning to turn grey.  And it seemed strange to him that he had grown so much older, so much plainer during the last few years.  The shoulders on which his hands rested were warm and quivering.  He felt compassion for this life, still so warm and lovely, but probably already not far from beginning to fade and wither like his own.  Why did she love him so much?  He always seemed to women different from what he was, and they loved in him not himself, but the man created by their imagination, whom they had been eagerly seeking all their lives; and afterwards, when they noticed their mistake, they loved him all the same.  And not one of them had been happy with him.  Time passed, he had made their acquaintance, got on with them, parted, but he had never once loved; it was anything you like, but not love.

And only now when his head was grey he had fallen properly, really in love—­for the first time in his life.

Anna Sergeyevna and he loved each other like people very close and akin, like husband and wife, like tender friends; it seemed to them that fate itself had meant them for one another, and they could not understand why he had a wife and she a husband; and it was as though they were a pair of birds of passage, caught and forced to live in different cages.  They forgave each other for what they were ashamed of in their past, they forgave everything in the present, and felt that this love of theirs had changed them both.