“Stepan, take Georgy Ivanitch his things.”

When I went in to Orlov with his clothes and his boots, he was sitting on the bed with his feet on the bearskin rug.  There was an air of embarrassment about his whole figure.  He did not notice me, and my menial opinion did not interest him; he was evidently perturbed and embarrassed before himself, before his inner eye.  He dressed, washed, and used his combs and brushes silently and deliberately, as though allowing himself time to think over his position and to reflect, and even from his back one could see he was troubled and dissatisfied with himself.

They drank coffee together.  Zinaida Fyodorovna poured out coffee for herself and for Orlov, then she put her elbows on the table and laughed.

“I still can’t believe it,” she said.  “When one has been a long while on one’s travels and reaches a hotel at last, it’s difficult to believe that one hasn’t to go on.  It is pleasant to breathe freely.”

With the expression of a child who very much wants to be mischievous, she sighed with relief and laughed again.

“You will excuse me,” said Orlov, nodding towards the coffee.  “Reading at breakfast is a habit I can’t get over.  But I can do two things at once—­read and listen.”

“Read away. . . .  You shall keep your habits and your freedom.  But why do you look so solemn?  Are you always like that in the morning, or is it only to-day?  Aren’t you glad?”

“Yes, I am.  But I must own I am a little overwhelmed.”

“Why?  You had plenty of time to prepare yourself for my descent upon you.  I’ve been threatening to come every day.”

“Yes, but I didn’t expect you to carry out your threat to-day.”

“I didn’t expect it myself, but that’s all the better.  It’s all the better, my dear.  It’s best to have an aching tooth out and have done with it.”

“Yes, of course.”

“Oh, my dear,” she said, closing her eyes, “all is well that ends well; but before this happy ending, what suffering there has been!  My laughing means nothing; I am glad, I am happy, but I feel more like crying than laughing.  Yesterday I had to fight a regular battle,” she went on in French.  “God alone knows how wretched I was.  But I laugh because I can’t believe in it.  I keep fancying that my sitting here drinking coffee with you is not real, but a dream.”

Then, still speaking French, she described how she had broken with her husband the day before and her eyes were alternately full of tears and of laughter while she gazed with rapture at Orlov.  She told him her husband had long suspected her, but had avoided explanations; they had frequent quarrels, and usually at the most heated moment he would suddenly subside into silence and depart to his study for fear that in his exasperation he might give utterance to his suspicions or she might herself begin to speak openly.  And she had felt guilty, worthless, incapable of taking