The room was close and smelt of the scent she had bought at the Japanese shop.  Gurov looked at her and thought:  “What different people one meets in the world!” From the past he preserved memories of careless, good-natured women, who loved cheerfully and were grateful to him for the happiness he gave them, however brief it might be; and of women like his wife who loved without any genuine feeling, with superfluous phrases, affectedly, hysterically, with an expression that suggested that it was not love nor passion, but something more significant; and of two or three others, very beautiful, cold women, on whose faces he had caught a glimpse of a rapacious expression—­an obstinate desire to snatch from life more than it could give, and these were capricious, unreflecting, domineering, unintelligent women not in their first youth, and when Gurov grew cold to them their beauty excited his hatred, and the lace on their linen seemed to him like scales.

But in this case there was still the diffidence, the angularity of inexperienced youth, an awkward feeling; and there was a sense of consternation as though some one had suddenly knocked at the door.  The attitude of Anna Sergeyevna—­“the lady with the dog”—­to what had happened was somehow peculiar, very grave, as though it were her fall—­so it seemed, and it was strange and inappropriate.  Her face dropped and faded, and on both sides of it her long hair hung down mournfully; she mused in a dejected attitude like “the woman who was a sinner” in an old-fashioned picture.

“It’s wrong,” she said.  “You will be the first to despise me now.”

There was a water-melon on the table.  Gurov cut himself a slice and began eating it without haste.  There followed at least half an hour of silence.

Anna Sergeyevna was touching; there was about her the purity of a good, simple woman who had seen little of life.  The solitary candle burning on the table threw a faint light on her face, yet it was clear that she was very unhappy.

“How could I despise you?” asked Gurov.  “You don’t know what you are saying.”

“God forgive me,” she said, and her eyes filled with tears.  “It’s awful.”

“You seem to feel you need to be forgiven.”

“Forgiven?  No.  I am a bad, low woman; I despise myself and don’t attempt to justify myself.  It’s not my husband but myself I have deceived.  And not only just now; I have been deceiving myself for a long time.  My husband may be a good, honest man, but he is a flunkey!  I don’t know what he does there, what his work is, but I know he is a flunkey!  I was twenty when I was married to him.  I have been tormented by curiosity; I wanted something better.  ’There must be a different sort of life,’ I said to myself.  I wanted to live!  To live, to live! . . .  I was fired by curiosity . . . you don’t understand it, but, I swear to God, I could not control myself; something happened to me:  I could not be restrained.  I told my husband I was ill, and came here. . . .  And here I have been walking about as though I were dazed, like a mad creature; . . . and now I have become a vulgar, contemptible woman whom any one may despise.”