Groholsky was lost in admiration.  Liza was so incredibly beautiful.  It is true her little kittenish face with its brown eyes, and turn up nose was fresh, and even piquant, his scanty hair was black as soot and curly, her little figure was graceful, well proportioned and mobile as the body of an electric eel, but on the whole. . . .  However my taste has nothing to do with it.  Groholsky who was spoilt by women, and who had been in love and out of love hundreds of times in his life, saw her as a beauty.  He loved her, and blind love finds ideal beauty everywhere.

“I say,” he said, looking straight into her eyes, “I have come to talk to you, my precious.  Love cannot bear anything vague or indefinite. . . .  Indefinite relations, you know, I told you yesterday, Liza . . . we will try to-day to settle the question we raised yesterday.  Come, let us decide together. . . .”

“What are we to do?”

Liza gave a yawn and scowling, drew her right arm from under her head.

“What are we to do?” she repeated hardly audibly after Groholsky.

“Well, yes, what are we to do?  Come, decide, wise little head . . .  I love you, and a man in love is not fond of sharing.  He is more than an egoist.  It is too much for me to go shares with your husband.  I mentally tear him to pieces, when I remember that he loves you too.  In the second place you love me. . . .  Perfect freedom is an essential condition for love. . . .  And are you free?  Are you not tortured by the thought that that man towers for ever over your soul?  A man whom you do not love, whom very likely and quite naturally, you hate. . . .  That’s the second thing. . . .  And thirdly. . . .  What is the third thing?  Oh yes. . . .  We are deceiving him and that . . . is dishonourable.  Truth before everything, Liza.  Let us have done with lying!”

“Well, then, what are we to do?”

“You can guess. . . .  I think it necessary, obligatory, to inform him of our relations and to leave him, to begin to live in freedom.  Both must be done as quickly as possible. . . .  This very evening, for instance. . . .  It’s time to make an end of it.  Surely you must be sick of loving like a thief?”

“Tell! tell Vanya?”

“Why, yes!”

“That’s impossible!  I told you yesterday, Michel, that it is impossible.”

“Why?”

“He will be upset.  He’ll make a row, do all sorts of unpleasant things. . . .  Don’t you know what he is like?  God forbid!  There’s no need to tell him.  What an idea!”

Groholsky passed his hand over his brow, and heaved a sigh.

“Yes,” he said, “he will be more than upset.  I am robbing him of his happiness.  Does he love you?”

“He does love me.  Very much.”

“There’s another complication!  One does not know where to begin.  To conceal it from him is base, telling him would kill him. . . .  Goodness knows what’s one to do.  Well, how is it to be?”