“Not that curtain, Phillip—­the one at the large window,” she said in a sad voice, evidently pitying herself for the efforts she was compelled to make to say these words, and to calm herself, with her ring-bedecked hand, she lifted to her lips the fragrant, smoking cigarette.

The broad-chested, muscular Phillip bowed slightly, as if excusing himself, and submissively and silently stepped over to the next window, and, carefully looking at the Princess, so arranged the curtain that no stray ray should fall on her.  It was again unsatisfactory, and again the exhausted Princess was obliged to interrupt her conversation about mysticism and correct the unintelligent Phillip, who was pitilessly tormenting her.  For a moment Phillip’s eyes flashed fire.

“‘The devil knows what you want,’ he is probably saying to himself,” Nekhludoff thought, as he watched this play.  But the handsome, strong Phillip concealed his impatience, and calmly carried out the instructions of the enervated, weak, artificial Princess Sophia Vasilievna.

“Of course there is considerable truth in Darwin’s theory,” said the returning Kolosoff, stretching himself on a low arm-chair and looking through sleepy eyes at the Princess, “but he goes too far.”

“And do you believe in heredity?” she asked Nekhludoff, oppressed by his silence.

“In heredity?” repeated Nekhludoff.  “No, I do not,” he said, being entirely absorbed at the moment by those strange forms which, for some reason, appeared to his imagination.  Alongside of the strong, handsome Phillip, whom he looked upon as a model, he imagined Kolosoff, naked, his abdomen like a water-melon, bald-headed, and his arms hanging like two cords.  He also dimly imagined what the silk-covered shoulders of Sophia Vasilievna would appear like in reality, but the picture was too terrible, and he drove it from his mind.

Sophia Vasilievna scanned him from head to foot.

“Missy is waiting for you,” she said.  “Go to her room; she wished to play for you a new composition by Schuman.  It is very interesting.”

“It isn’t true.  Why should she lie so!” Nekhludoff thought, rising and pressing her transparent, bony, ring-bedecked hand.

In the drawing-room he met Katherine Alexeievna, returning to her mother’s apartments.  As usual, she greeted him in French.

“I see that the duties of juryman act depressingly upon you,” she said.

“Yes, pardon me.  I am in low spirits to-day, and I have no right to bore people,” answered Nekhludoff.

“Why are you in low spirits?”

“Permit me not to speak of it,” he said, looking for his hat as they entered the Princess’ cabinet.

“And do you remember telling us that one ought to tell the truth?  And what cruel truths you used to tell us!  Why don’t you tell us now?  Do you remember, Missy?” the Princess turned to Missy, who had just entered.

“Because that was in play,” answered Nekhludoff gravely.  “In play it is permissible, but in reality we are so bad, that is, I am so bad, that I, at least, cannot tell the truth.”