He was ashamed that he had been treated like a small boy, ashamed of his shyness, and, most of all, that he had had the audacity to put his arms round the waist of a respectable married woman, though, as it seemed to him, he had neither through age nor by external quality, nor by social position any right to do so.

He jumped up, went out of the arbour, and, without looking round, walked into the recesses of the garden furthest from the house.

“Ah! only to get away from here as soon as possible,” he thought, clutching his head.  “My God! as soon as possible.”

The train by which Volodya was to go back with his maman was at eight-forty.  There were three hours before the train started, but he would with pleasure have gone to the station at once without waiting for his maman.

At eight o’clock he went to the house.  His whole figure was expressive of determination:  what would be, would be!  He made up his mind to go in boldly, to look them straight in the face, to speak in a loud voice, regardless of everything.

He crossed the terrace, the big hall and the drawing-room, and there stopped to take breath.  He could hear them in the dining-room, drinking tea.  Madame Shumihin, maman, and Nyuta were talking and laughing about something.

Volodya listened.

“I assure you!” said Nyuta.  “I could not believe my eyes!  When he began declaring his passion and—­just imagine!—­put his arms round my waist, I should not have recognised him.  And you know he has a way with him!  When he told me he was in love with me, there was something brutal in his face, like a Circassian.”

“Really!” gasped maman, going off into a peal of laughter.  “Really!  How he does remind me of his father!”

Volodya ran back and dashed out into the open air.

“How could they talk of it aloud!” he wondered in agony, clasping his hands and looking up to the sky in horror.  “They talk aloud in cold blood . . . and maman laughed! . . . Maman! My God, why didst Thou give me such a mother?  Why?”

But he had to go to the house, come what might.  He walked three times up and down the avenue, grew a little calmer, and went into the house.

“Why didn’t you come in in time for tea?” Madame Shumihin asked sternly.

“I am sorry, it’s . . . it’s time for me to go,” he muttered, not raising his eyes. “Maman, it’s eight o’clock!”

“You go alone, my dear,” said his maman languidly.  “I am staying the night with Lili.  Goodbye, my dear. . . .  Let me make the sign of the cross over you.”

She made the sign of the cross over her son, and said in French, turning to Nyuta: 

“He’s rather like Lermontov . . . isn’t he?”

Saying good-bye after a fashion, without looking any one in the face, Volodya went out of the dining-room.  Ten minutes later he was walking along the road to the station, and was glad of it.  Now he felt neither frightened nor ashamed; he breathed freely and easily.