Nevertheless, Pyotr Mihalitch was fond of Vlassitch; he was conscious of a sort of power in him, and for some reason he had never had the heart to contradict him.

Vlassitch sat down quite close to him for a talk in the dark, to the accompaniment of the rain, and he had cleared his throat as a prelude to beginning on something lengthy, such as the history of his marriage.  But it was intolerable for Pyotr Mihalitch to listen to him; he was tormented by the thought that he would see his sister directly.

“Yes, you’ve had bad luck,” he said gently; “but, excuse me, we’ve been wandering from the point.  That’s not what we are talking about.”

“Yes, yes, quite so.  Well, let us come back to the point,” said Vlassitch, and he stood up.  “I tell you, Petrusha, our conscience is clear.  We are not married, but there is no need for me to prove to you that our marriage is perfectly legitimate.  You are as free in your ideas as I am, and, happily, there can be no disagreement between us on that point.  As for our future, that ought not to alarm you.  I’ll work in the sweat of my brow, I’ll work day and night—­ in fact, I will strain every nerve to make Zina happy.  Her life will be a splendid one!  You may ask, am I able to do it.  I am, brother!  When a man devotes every minute to one thought, it’s not difficult for him to attain his object.  But let us go to Zina; it will be a joy to her to see you.”

Pyotr Mihalitch’s heart began to beat.  He got up and followed Vlassitch into the hall, and from there into the drawing-room.  There was nothing in the huge gloomy room but a piano and a long row of old chairs ornamented with bronze, on which no one ever sat.  There was a candle alight on the piano.  From the drawing-room they went in silence into the dining-room.  This room, too, was large and comfortless; in the middle of the room there was a round table with two leaves with six thick legs, and only one candle.  A clock in a large mahogany case like an ikon stand pointed to half-past two.

Vlassitch opened the door into the next room and said: 

“Zina, here is Petrusha come to see us!”

At once there was the sound of hurried footsteps and Zina came into the dining-room.  She was tall, plump, and very pale, and, just as when he had seen her for the last time at home, she was wearing a black skirt and a red blouse, with a large buckle on her belt.  She flung one arm round her brother and kissed him on the temple.

“What a storm!” she said.  “Grigory went off somewhere and I was left quite alone in the house.”

She was not embarrassed, and looked at her brother as frankly and candidly as at home; looking at her, Pyotr Mihalitch, too, lost his embarrassment.

“But you are not afraid of storms,” he said, sitting down at the table.

“No,” she said, “but here the rooms are so big, the house is so old, and when there is thunder it all rattles like a cupboard full of crockery.  It’s a charming house altogether,” she went on, sitting down opposite her brother.  “There’s some pleasant memory in every room.  In my room, only fancy, Grigory’s grandfather shot himself.”