Olga Mihalovna felt sorry for him.  It was as clear as day that this man was harassed, could find no rest, and was perhaps struggling with himself.  Olga Mihalovna went up to the table in silence:  wanting to show that she had forgotten the argument at dinner and was not cross, she shut the cigarette-case and put it in her husband’s coat pocket.

“What should I say to him?” she wondered; “I shall say that lying is like a forest—­the further one goes into it the more difficult it is to get out of it.  I will say to him, ’You have been carried away by the false part you are playing; you have insulted people who were attached to you and have done you no harm.  Go and apologize to them, laugh at yourself, and you will feel better.  And if you want peace and solitude, let us go away together.’”

Meeting his wife’s gaze, Pyotr Dmitritch’s face immediately assumed the expression it had worn at dinner and in the garden—­indifferent and slightly ironical.  He yawned and got up.

“It’s past five,” he said, looking at his watch.  “If our visitors are merciful and leave us at eleven, even then we have another six hours of it.  It’s a cheerful prospect, there’s no denying!”

And whistling something, he walked slowly out of the study with his usual dignified gait.  She could hear him with dignified firmness cross the dining-room, then the drawing-room, laugh with dignified assurance, and say to the young man who was playing, “Bravo! bravo!” Soon his footsteps died away:  he must have gone out into the garden.  And now not jealousy, not vexation, but real hatred of his footsteps, his insincere laugh and voice, took possession of Olga Mihalovna.  She went to the window and looked out into the garden.  Pyotr Dmitritch was already walking along the avenue.  Putting one hand in his pocket and snapping the fingers of the other, he walked with confident swinging steps, throwing his head back a little, and looking as though he were very well satisfied with himself, with his dinner, with his digestion, and with nature. . . .

Two little schoolboys, the children of Madame Tchizhevsky, who had only just arrived, made their appearance in the avenue, accompanied by their tutor, a student wearing a white tunic and very narrow trousers.  When they reached Pyotr Dmitritch, the boys and the student stopped, and probably congratulated him on his name-day.  With a graceful swing of his shoulders, he patted the children on their cheeks, and carelessly offered the student his hand without looking at him.  The student must have praised the weather and compared it with the climate of Petersburg, for Pyotr Dmitritch said in a loud voice, in a tone as though he were not speaking to a guest, but to an usher of the court or a witness: 

“What!  It’s cold in Petersburg?  And here, my good sir, we have a salubrious atmosphere and the fruits of the earth in abundance.  Eh?  What?”