“One would run away from a fence like that,” thought Gurov, looking from the fence to the windows of the house and back again.

He considered:  to-day was a holiday, and the husband would probably be at home.  And in any case it would be tactless to go into the house and upset her.  If he were to send her a note it might fall into her husband’s hands, and then it might ruin everything.  The best thing was to trust to chance.  And he kept walking up and down the street by the fence, waiting for the chance.  He saw a beggar go in at the gate and dogs fly at him; then an hour later he heard a piano, and the sounds were faint and indistinct.  Probably it was Anna Sergeyevna playing.  The front door suddenly opened, and an old woman came out, followed by the familiar white Pomeranian.  Gurov was on the point of calling to the dog, but his heart began beating violently, and in his excitement he could not remember the dog’s name.

He walked up and down, and loathed the grey fence more and more, and by now he thought irritably that Anna Sergeyevna had forgotten him, and was perhaps already amusing herself with some one else, and that that was very natural in a young woman who had nothing to look at from morning till night but that confounded fence.  He went back to his hotel room and sat for a long while on the sofa, not knowing what to do, then he had dinner and a long nap.

“How stupid and worrying it is!” he thought when he woke and looked at the dark windows:  it was already evening.  “Here I’ve had a good sleep for some reason.  What shall I do in the night?”

He sat on the bed, which was covered by a cheap grey blanket, such as one sees in hospitals, and he taunted himself in his vexation: 

“So much for the lady with the dog . . . so much for the adventure . . . .  You’re in a nice fix. . . .”

That morning at the station a poster in large letters had caught his eye.  “The Geisha” was to be performed for the first time.  He thought of this and went to the theatre.

“It’s quite possible she may go to the first performance,” he thought.

The theatre was full.  As in all provincial theatres, there was a fog above the chandelier, the gallery was noisy and restless; in the front row the local dandies were standing up before the beginning of the performance, with their hands behind them; in the Governor’s box the Governor’s daughter, wearing a boa, was sitting in the front seat, while the Governor himself lurked modestly behind the curtain with only his hands visible; the orchestra was a long time tuning up; the stage curtain swayed.  All the time the audience were coming in and taking their seats Gurov looked at them eagerly.

Anna Sergeyevna, too, came in.  She sat down in the third row, and when Gurov looked at her his heart contracted, and he understood clearly that for him there was in the whole world no creature so near, so precious, and so important to him; she, this little woman, in no way remarkable, lost in a provincial crowd, with a vulgar lorgnette in her hand, filled his whole life now, was his sorrow and his joy, the one happiness that he now desired for himself, and to the sounds of the inferior orchestra, of the wretched provincial violins, he thought how lovely she was.  He thought and dreamed.