Nekhludoff had meant to treat her in the same way as before, but could not bring himself to shake hands with her, so disgusting was she to him now.

“I have brought you had news,” he said, in a monotonous voice, without looking at her or taking her hand.  “The Senate has refused.”

“I knew it would,” she said, in a strange tone, as if she were gasping for breath.

Formerly Nekhludoff would have asked why she said she knew it would; now he only looked at her.  Her eyes were full of tears.  But this did not soften him; it roused his irritation against her even more.

The inspector rose and began pacing up and down the room.

In spite of the disgust Nekhludoff was feeling at the moment, he considered it right to express his regret at the Senate’s decision.

“You must not despair,” he said.  “The petition to the Emperor may meet with success, and I hope—–­”

“I’m not thinking of that,” she said, looking piteously at him with her wet, squinting eyes.

“What is it, then?”

“You have been to the hospital, and they have most likely told you about me—­”

“What of that?  That is your affair,” said Nekhludoff coldly, and frowned.  The cruel feeling of wounded pride that had quieted down rose with renewed force when she mentioned the hospital.

“He, a man of the world, whom any girl of the best families would think it happiness to marry, offered himself as a husband to this woman, and she could not even wait, but began intriguing with the medical assistant,” thought he, with a look of hatred.

“Here, sign this petition,” he said, taking a large envelope from his pocket, and laying the paper on the table.  She wiped the tears with a corner of her kerchief, and asked what to write and where.

He showed her, and she sat down and arranged the cuff of her right sleeve with her left hand; he stood behind her, and silently looked at her back, which shook with suppressed emotion, and evil and good feelings were fighting in his breast—­feelings of wounded pride and of pity for her who was suffering—­and the last feeling was victorious.

He could not remember which came first; did the pity for her first enter his heart, or did he first remember his own sins—­his own repulsive actions, the very same for which he was condemning her?  Anyhow, he both felt himself guilty and pitied her.

Having signed the petition and wiped her inky finger on her petticoat, she got up and looked at him.

“Whatever happens, whatever comes of it, my resolve remains unchanged,” said Nekhludoff.  The thought that he had forgiven her heightened his feeling of pity and tenderness for her, and he wished to comfort her.  “I will do what I have said; wherever they take you I shall be with you.”

“What’s the use?” she interrupted hurriedly, though her whole face lighted up.

“Think what you will want on the way—­”