lap-dog, Suzette, hurt her leg so that it bled, he volunteered to bandage it, and without a moment’s consideration tore his fine linen handkerchief (Sophia Ivanovna knew that those handkerchiefs were worth fifteen rubles a dozen) and made bandages of it for the dog.  The aunts had never seen such men, nor did they know that his debts ran up to two hundred thousand rubles, which—­he knew—­would never be paid, and that therefore twenty-five rubles more or less made no appreciable difference in his accounts.

Shenbok remained but one day, and the following evening departed with Nekhludoff.  They could remain no longer, for the time for joining their regiment had arrived.

On this last day spent at the aunts, when the events of the preceding evening were fresh in his memory, two antagonistic feelings struggled in Nekhludoff’s soul; one was the burning, sensual recollection of love, although it failed to fulfill its promises, and some satisfaction of having gained his ends; the other, a consciousness of having committed a wrong, and that that wrong must be righted—­not for her sake, but for his own sake.

In that condition of insane egotism Nekhludoff thought only of himself—­whether he would be condemned, and how far, if his act should be discovered, but never gave a thought to the question, “How does she feel about it, and what will become of her?”

He thought that Shenbok divined his relations to Katiousha, and his ambition was flattered.

“That’s why you so suddenly began to like your aunts,” Shenbok said to him when he saw Katiousha.  “In your place I should stay here even longer.  She is charming!”

He also thought that while it was a pity to leave now, without enjoying his love in its fullness, the necessity of going was advantageous in that he was able to break the relations which it were difficult to keep up.  He further thought it was necessary to give her money, not because she might need it, but because it was customary to do so.  So he gave as much money as he thought was proper, considering their respective positions.

On the day of his departure, after dinner he waited in the passage until she came by.  She flushed as she saw him, and wished to pass on, pointing with her eyes to the door of her room, but he detained her.

“I came to bid you farewell,” he said, crumpling an envelope containing a hundred ruble bill.  “How is——­”

She suspected it, frowned, shook her head and thrust aside his hand.

“Yes, take it,” he murmured, thrusting the envelope in the bosom of her waist, and, as if it had burned his fingers, he ran to his room.

For a long time he paced his room to and fro, frowning, and even jumping, and moaning aloud as if from physical pain, as he thought of the scene.

But what is to be done?  It is always thus.  Thus it was with Shenbok and the governess whom he had told about; it was thus with Uncle Gregory; with his father, when he lived in the country, and the illegitimate son Miteuka, who is still living, was born to him.  And if everybody acts thus, consequently it ought to be so.  Thus he was consoling himself, but he could not be consoled.  The recollection of it stung his conscience.