“I don’t want to go, but I can’t find an excuse to get off,” he said with vexation.  “I must go; there’s nothing for it.”

Such news instantly made Zinaida Fyodorovna’s eyes look red.  “Is it for long?” she asked.

“Five days or so.”

“I am glad, really, you are going,” she said after a moment’s thought.  “It will be a change for you.  You will fall in love with some one on the way, and tell me about it afterwards.”

At every opportunity she tried to make Orlov feel that she did not restrict his liberty in any way, and that he could do exactly as he liked, and this artless, transparent strategy deceived no one, and only unnecessarily reminded Orlov that he was not free.

“I am going this evening,” he said, and began reading the paper.

Zinaida Fyodorovna wanted to see him off at the station, but he dissuaded her, saying that he was not going to America, and not going to be away five years, but only five days—­possibly less.

The parting took place between seven and eight.  He put one arm round her, and kissed her on the lips and on the forehead.

“Be a good girl, and don’t be depressed while I am away,” he said in a warm, affectionate tone which touched even me.  “God keep you!”

She looked greedily into his face, to stamp his dear features on her memory, then she put her arms gracefully round his neck and laid her head on his breast.

“Forgive me our misunderstandings,” she said in French.  “Husband and wife cannot help quarrelling if they love each other, and I love you madly.  Don’t forget me. . . .  Wire to me often and fully.”

Orlov kissed her once more, and, without saying a word, went out in confusion.  When he heard the click of the lock as the door closed, he stood still in the middle of the staircase in hesitation and glanced upwards.  It seemed to me that if a sound had reached him at that moment from above, he would have turned back.  But all was quiet.  He straightened his coat and went downstairs irresolutely.

The sledges had been waiting a long while at the door.  Orlov got into one, I got into the other with two portmanteaus.  It was a hard frost and there were fires smoking at the cross-roads.  The cold wind nipped my face and hands, and took my breath away as we drove rapidly along; and, closing my eyes, I thought what a splendid woman she was.  How she loved him!  Even useless rubbish is collected in the courtyards nowadays and used for some purpose, even broken glass is considered a useful commodity, but something so precious, so rare, as the love of a refined, young, intelligent, and good woman is utterly thrown away and wasted.  One of the early sociologists regarded every evil passion as a force which might by judicious management be turned to good, while among us even a fine, noble passion springs up and dies away in impotence, turned to no account, misunderstood or vulgarised.  Why is it?