Now they were kissing.  Laptev was convinced that the millions and the business which was so distasteful to him were ruining his life, and would make him a complete slave.  He imagined how, little by little, he would grow accustomed to his position; would, little by little, enter into the part of the head of a great firm; would begin to grow dull and old, die in the end, as the average man usually does die, in a decrepit, soured old age, making every one about him miserable and depressed.  But what hindered him from giving up those millions and that business, and leaving that yard and garden which had been hateful to him from his childhood?

The whispering and kisses the other side of the fence disturbed him.  He moved into the middle of the yard, and, unbuttoning his shirt over his chest, looked at the moon, and it seemed to him that he would order the gate to be unlocked, and would go out and never come back again.  His heart ached sweetly with the foretaste of freedom; he laughed joyously, and pictured how exquisite, poetical, and even holy, life might be. . . .

But he still stood and did not go away, and kept asking himself:  “What keeps me here?” And he felt angry with himself and with the black dog, which still lay stretched on the stone yard, instead of running off to the open country, to the woods, where it would have been free and happy.  It was clear that that dog and he were prevented from leaving the yard by the same thing; the habit of bondage, of servitude. . . .

At midday next morning he went to see his wife, and that he might not be dull, asked Yartsev to go with him.  Yulia Sergeyevna was staying in a summer villa at Butovo, and he had not been to see her for five days.  When they reached the station the friends got into a carriage, and all the way there Yartsev was singing and in raptures over the exquisite weather.  The villa was in a great park not far from the station.  At the beginning of an avenue, about twenty paces from the gates, Yulia Sergeyevna was sitting under a broad, spreading poplar, waiting for her guests.  She had on a light, elegant dress of a pale cream colour trimmed with lace, and in her hand she had the old familiar parasol.  Yartsev greeted her and went on to the villa from which came the sound of Sasha’s and Lida’s voices, while Laptev sat down beside her to talk of business matters.

“Why is it you haven’t been for so long?” she said, keeping his hand in hers.  “I have been sitting here for days watching for you to come.  I miss you so when you are away!”

She stood up and passed her hand over his hair, and scanned his face, his shoulders, his hat, with interest.

“You know I love you,” she said, and flushed crimson.  “You are precious to me.  Here you’ve come.  I see you, and I’m so happy I can’t tell you.  Well, let us talk.  Tell me something.”

She had told him she loved him, and he could only feel as though he had been married to her for ten years, and that he was hungry for his lunch.  She had put her arm round his neck, tickling his cheek with the silk of her dress; he cautiously removed her hand, stood up, and without uttering a single word, walked to the villa.  The little girls ran to meet him.