He was smiling and looked cheerful.  Evidently he did not yet know that Zina had gone to live with Vlassitch; perhaps he had been told of it already, but did not believe it.  Pyotr Mihalitch felt in a difficult position.

“You are very welcome,” he muttered, blushing till the tears came into his eyes, and not knowing how to lie or what to say.  “I am delighted,” he went on, trying to smile, “but . . .  Zina is away and mother is ill.”

“How annoying!” said the police captain, looking pensively at Pyotr Mihalitch.  “And I was meaning to spend the evening with you.  Where has Zinaida Mihalovna gone?”

“To the Sinitskys’, and I believe she meant to go from there to the monastery.  I don’t quite know.”

The police captain talked a little longer and then turned back.  Pyotr Mihalitch walked home, and thought with horror what the police captain’s feelings would be when he learned the truth.  And Pyotr Mihalitch imagined his feelings, and actually experiencing them himself, went into the house.

“Lord help us,” he thought, “Lord help us!”

At evening tea the only one at the table was his aunt.  As usual, her face wore the expression that seemed to say that though she was a weak, defenceless woman, she would allow no one to insult her.  Pyotr Mihalitch sat down at the other end of the table (he did not like his aunt) and began drinking tea in silence.

“Your mother has had no dinner again to-day,” said his aunt.  “You ought to do something about it, Petrusha.  Starving oneself is no help in sorrow.”

It struck Pyotr Mihalitch as absurd that his aunt should meddle in other people’s business and should make her departure depend on Zina’s having gone away.  He was tempted to say something rude to her, but restrained himself.  And as he restrained himself he felt the time had come for action, and that he could not bear it any longer.  Either he must act at once or fall on the ground, and scream and bang his head upon the floor.  He pictured Vlassitch and Zina, both of them progressive and self-satisfied, kissing each other somewhere under a maple tree, and all the anger and bitterness that had been accumulating in him for the last seven days fastened upon Vlassitch.

“One has seduced and abducted my sister,” he thought, “another will come and murder my mother, a third will set fire to the house and sack the place. . . .  And all this under the mask of friendship, lofty ideas, unhappiness!”

“No, it shall not be!” Pyotr Mihalitch cried suddenly, and he brought his fist down on the table.

He jumped up and ran out of the dining-room.  In the stable the steward’s horse was standing ready saddled.  He got on it and galloped off to Vlassitch.