“You are both of you wet with the rain,” said Zina, and she smiled joyfully; she was touched by this point of resemblance between her brother and Vlassitch.

And Pyotr Mihalitch felt all the bitterness and horror of his position.  He thought of his deserted home, the closed piano, and Zina’s bright little room into which no one went now; he thought there were no prints of little feet on the garden-paths, and that before tea no one went off, laughing gaily, to bathe.  What he had clung to more and more from his childhood upwards, what he had loved thinking about when he used to sit in the stuffy class-room or the lecture theatre—­brightness, purity, and joy, everything that filled the house with life and light, had gone never to return, had vanished, and was mixed up with a coarse, clumsy story of some battalion officer, a chivalrous lieutenant, a depraved woman and a grandfather who had shot himself. . . .  And to begin to talk about his mother or to think that the past could ever return would mean not understanding what was clear.

Pyotr Mihalitch’s eyes filled with tears and his hand began to tremble as it lay on the table.  Zina guessed what he was thinking about, and her eyes, too, glistened and looked red.

“Grigory, come here,” she said to Vlassitch.

They walked away to the window and began talking of something in a whisper.  From the way that Vlassitch stooped down to her and the way she looked at him, Pyotr Mihalitch realised again that everything was irreparably over, and that it was no use to talk of anything.  Zina went out of the room.

“Well, brother!” Vlassitch began, after a brief silence, rubbing his hands and smiling.  “I called our life happiness just now, but that was, so to speak, poetical license.  In reality, there has not been a sense of happiness so far.  Zina has been thinking all the time of you, of her mother, and has been worrying; looking at her, I, too, felt worried.  Hers is a bold, free nature, but, you know, it’s difficult when you’re not used to it, and she is young, too.  The servants call her ‘Miss’; it seems a trifle, but it upsets her.  There it is, brother.”

Zina brought in a plateful of strawberries.  She was followed by a little maidservant, looking crushed and humble, who set a jug of milk on the table and made a very low bow:  she had something about her that was in keeping with the old furniture, something petrified and dreary.

The sound of the rain had ceased.  Pyotr Mihalitch ate strawberries while Vlassitch and Zina looked at him in silence.  The moment of the inevitable but useless conversation was approaching, and all three felt the burden of it.  Pyotr Mihalitch’s eyes filled with tears again; he pushed away his plate and said that he must be going home, or it would be getting late, and perhaps it would rain again.  The time had come when common decency required Zina to speak of those at home and of her new life.