“What is it?  What is it?  For God’s sake, tell me.”

“Can Kirilin have written him something?” she thought.

“It’s nothing,” said Laevsky, laughing and crying; “go away, darling.”

His face expressed neither hatred nor repulsion:  so he knew nothing; Nadyezhda Fyodorovna was somewhat reassured, and she went into the drawing-room.

“Don’t agitate yourself, my dear!” said Marya Konstantinovna, sitting down beside her and taking her hand.  “It will pass.  Men are just as weak as we poor sinners.  You are both going through a crisis. . . .  One can so well understand it!  Well, my dear, I am waiting for an answer.  Let us have a little talk.”

“No, we are not going to talk,” said Nadyezhda Fyodorovna, listening to Laevsky’s sobs.  “I feel depressed. . . .  You must allow me to go home.”

“What do you mean, what do you mean, my dear?” cried Marya Konstantinovna in alarm.  “Do you think I could let you go without supper?  We will have something to eat, and then you may go with my blessing.”

“I feel miserable . . .” whispered Nadyezhda Fyodorovna, and she caught at the arm of the chair with both hands to avoid falling.

“He’s got a touch of hysterics,” said Von Koren gaily, coming into the drawing-room, but seeing Nadyezhda Fyodorovna, he was taken aback and retreated.

When the attack was over, Laevsky sat on the strange bed and thought.

“Disgraceful!  I’ve been howling like some wretched girl!  I must have been absurd and disgusting.  I will go away by the back stairs . . . .  But that would seem as though I took my hysterics too seriously.  I ought to take it as a joke. . . .”

He looked in the looking-glass, sat there for some time, and went back into the drawing-room.

“Here I am,” he said, smiling; he felt agonisingly ashamed, and he felt others were ashamed in his presence.  “Fancy such a thing happening,” he said, sitting down.  “I was sitting here, and all of a sudden, do you know, I felt a terrible piercing pain in my side . . . unendurable, my nerves could not stand it, and . . . and it led to this silly performance.  This is the age of nerves; there is no help for it.”

At supper he drank some wine, and, from time to time, with an abrupt sigh rubbed his side as though to suggest that he still felt the pain.  And no one, except Nadyezhda Fyodorovna, believed him, and he saw that.

After nine o’clock they went for a walk on the boulevard.  Nadyezhda Fyodorovna, afraid that Kirilin would speak to her, did her best to keep all the time beside Marya Konstantinovna and the children.  She felt weak with fear and misery, and felt she was going to be feverish; she was exhausted and her legs would hardly move, but she did not go home, because she felt sure that she would be followed by Kirilin or Atchmianov or both at once.  Kirilin walked behind her with Nikodim Alexandritch, and kept humming in an undertone: