Lying on her bed she breathed into her pillow and dreamed of how nice it would be to go and buy the most expensive brooch and fling it into the face of this bullying woman.  If only it were God’s will that Fedosya Vassilyevna should come to ruin and wander about begging, and should taste all the horrors of poverty and dependence, and that Mashenka, whom she had insulted, might give her alms!  Oh, if only she could come in for a big fortune, could buy a carriage, and could drive noisily past the windows so as to be envied by that woman!

But all these were only dreams, in reality there was only one thing left to do—­to get away as quickly as possible, not to stay another hour in this place.  It was true it was terrible to lose her place, to go back to her parents, who had nothing; but what could she do?  Mashenka could not bear the sight of the lady of the house nor of her little room; she felt stifled and wretched here.  She was so disgusted with Fedosya Vassilyevna, who was so obsessed by her illnesses and her supposed aristocratic rank, that everything in the world seemed to have become coarse and unattractive because this woman was living in it.  Mashenka jumped up from the bed and began packing.

“May I come in?” asked Nikolay Sergeitch at the door; he had come up noiselessly to the door, and spoke in a soft, subdued voice.  “May I?”

“Come in.”

He came in and stood still near the door.  His eyes looked dim and his red little nose was shiny.  After dinner he used to drink beer, and the fact was perceptible in his walk, in his feeble, flabby hands.

“What’s this?” he asked, pointing to the basket.

“I am packing.  Forgive me, Nikolay Sergeitch, but I cannot remain in your house.  I feel deeply insulted by this search!”

“I understand. . . .  Only you are wrong to go.  Why should you?  They’ve searched your things, but you . . . what does it matter to you?  You will be none the worse for it.”

Mashenka was silent and went on packing.  Nikolay Sergeitch pinched his moustache, as though wondering what he should say next, and went on in an ingratiating voice: 

“I understand, of course, but you must make allowances.  You know my wife is nervous, headstrong; you mustn’t judge her too harshly.”

Mashenka did not speak.

“If you are so offended,” Nikolay Sergeitch went on, “well, if you like, I’m ready to apologise.  I ask your pardon.”

Mashenka made no answer, but only bent lower over her box.  This exhausted, irresolute man was of absolutely no significance in the household.  He stood in the pitiful position of a dependent and hanger-on, even with the servants, and his apology meant nothing either.

“H’m! . . .  You say nothing!  That’s not enough for you.  In that case, I will apologise for my wife.  In my wife’s name. . . .  She behaved tactlessly, I admit it as a gentleman. . . .”

Nikolay Sergeitch walked about the room, heaved a sigh, and went on: