“‘Have another glass before your walk,’ said Kisotchka.

“I took another glass, again I began talking at length, forgot it was time to go, and sat down.  Then there came the sound of men’s voices, footsteps and the clank of spurs.

“‘I think my husband has come in . . . .’ said Kisotchka listening.

“The door creaked, two voices came now from the passage and I saw two men pass the door that led into the dining-room:  one a stout, solid, dark man with a hooked nose, wearing a straw hat, and the other a young officer in a white tunic.  As they passed the door they both glanced casually and indifferently at Kisotchka and me, and I fancied both of them were drunk.

“‘She told you a lie then, and you believed her!’ we heard a loud voice with a marked nasal twang say a minute later.  ’To begin with, it wasn’t at the big club but at the little one.’

“‘You are angry, Jupiter, so you are wrong . . . .’ said another voice, obviously the officer’s, laughing and coughing.  ’I say, can I stay the night?  Tell me honestly, shall I be in your way?’

“’What a question!  Not only you can, but you must.  What will you have, beer or wine?’

“They were sitting two rooms away from us, talking loudly, and apparently feeling no interest in Kisotchka or her visitor.  A perceptible change came over Kisotchka on her husband’s arrival.  At first she flushed red, then her face wore a timid, guilty expression; she seemed to be troubled by some anxiety, and I began to fancy that she was ashamed to show me her husband and wanted me to go.

“I began taking leave.  Kisotchka saw me to the front door.  I remember well her gentle mournful smile and kind patient eyes as she pressed my hand and said: 

“’Most likely we shall never see each other again.  Well, God give you every blessing.  Thank you!’

“Not one sigh, not one fine phrase.  As she said good-bye she was holding the candle in her hand; patches of light danced over her face and neck, as though chasing her mournful smile.  I pictured to myself the old Kisotchka whom one used to want to stroke like a cat, I looked intently at the present Kisotchka, and for some reason recalled her words:  ’Everyone ought to bear the lot that fate has laid on him.’  And I had a pang at my heart.  I instinctively guessed how it was, and my conscience whispered to me that I, in my happiness and indifference, was face to face with a good, warm-hearted, loving creature, who was broken by suffering.

“I said good-bye and went to the gate.  By now it was quite dark.  In the south the evenings draw in early in July and it gets dark rapidly.  Towards ten o’clock it is so dark that you can’t see an inch before your nose.  I lighted a couple of dozen matches before, almost groping, I found my way to the gate.

“‘Cab!’ I shouted, going out of the gate; not a sound, not a sigh in answer. . . .  ‘Cab,’ I repeated, ‘hey, Cab!’