“What thought?”

“An awful thought, my love.  I am tortured by the thought of your husband.  I have been silent hitherto.  I have feared to trouble your inner peace, but I cannot go on being silent.  Where is he?  What has happened to him?  What has become of him with his money?  It is awful!  Every night I see his face, exhausted, suffering, imploring. . . .  Why, only think, my angel—­can the money he so generously accepted make up to him for you?  He loved you very much, didn’t he?”

“Very much!”

“There you see!  He has either taken to drink now, or . . .  I am anxious about him!  Ah, how anxious I am!  Should we write to him, do you think?  We ought to comfort him . . . a kind word, you know.”

Groholsky heaved a deep sigh, shook his head, and sank into an easy chair exhausted by painful reflection.  Leaning his head on his fists he fell to musing.  Judging from his face, his musings were painful.

“I am going to bed,” said Liza; “it’s time.”

Liza went to her own room, undressed, and dived under the bedclothes.  She used to go to bed at ten o’clock and get up at ten.  She was fond of her comfort.

She was soon in the arms of Morpheus.  Throughout the whole night she had the most fascinating dreams. . . .  She dreamed whole romances, novels, Arabian Nights. . . .  The hero of all these dreams was the gentleman in the top hat, who had caused her to utter a shriek that evening.

The gentleman in the top hat was carrying her off from Groholsky, was singing, was beating Groholsky and her, was flogging the boy under the window, was declaring his love, and driving her off in the chaise. . . .  Oh, dreams!  In one night, lying with one’s eyes shut, one may sometimes live through more than ten years of happiness . . . .  That night Liza lived through a great variety of experiences, and very happy ones, even in spite of the beating.

Waking up between six and seven, she flung on her clothes, hurriedly did her hair, and without even putting on her Tatar slippers with pointed toes, ran impulsively on to the verandah.  Shading her eyes from the sun with one hand, and with the other holding up her slipping clothes, she gazed at the villa opposite.  Her face beamed . . . .  There could be no further doubt it was he.

On the verandah in the villa opposite there was a table in front of the glass door.  A tea service was shining and glistening on the table with a silver samovar at the head.  Ivan Petrovitch was sitting at the table.  He had in his hand a glass in a silver holder, and was drinking tea.  He was drinking it with great relish.  That fact could be deduced from the smacking of his lips, the sound of which reached Liza’s ears.  He was wearing a brown dressing-gown with black flowers on it.  Massive tassels fell down to the ground.  It was the first time in her life Liza had seen her husband in a dressing-gown, and such an expensive-looking one.