It was not until evening that we again exchanged a word.  Yet I felt guilty, and was afraid to look at him, and remained at a loose end all day.

Woloda, on the contrary, did his lessons as diligently as ever, and passed the time after luncheon in talking and laughing with the girls.  As soon, again, as afternoon lessons were over I left the room, for it would have been terribly embarrassing for me to be alone with my brother.  When, too, the evening class in history was ended I took my notebook and moved towards the door.  Just as I passed Woloda, I pouted and pulled an angry face, though in reality I should have liked to have made my peace with him.  At the same moment he lifted his head, and with a barely perceptible and good-humouredly satirical smile looked me full in the face.  Our eyes met, and I saw that he understood me, while he, for his part, saw that I knew that he understood me; yet a feeling stronger than myself obliged me to turn away from him.

“Nicolinka,” he said in a perfectly simple and anything but mock-pathetic way, “you have been angry with me long enough.  I am sorry if I offended you,” and he tendered me his hand.

It was as though something welled up from my heart and nearly choked me.  Presently it passed away, the tears rushed to my eyes, and I felt immensely relieved.

“I too am so-rry, Wo-lo-da,” I said, taking his hand.  Yet he only looked at me with an expression as though he could not understand why there should be tears in my eyes.

VI.  MASHA

None of the changes produced in my conception of things were so striking as the one which led me to cease to see in one of our chambermaids a mere servant of the female sex, but, on the contrary, a woman upon whom depended, to a certain extent, my peace of mind and happiness.  From the time of my earliest recollection I can remember Masha an inmate of our house, yet never until the occurrence of which I am going to speak—­an occurrence which entirely altered my impression of her—­had I bestowed the smallest attention upon her.  She was twenty-five years old, while I was but fourteen.  Also, she was very beautiful.  But I hesitate to give a further description of her lest my imagination should once more picture the bewitching, though deceptive, conception of her which filled my mind during the period of my passion.  To be frank, I will only say that she was extraordinarily handsome, magnificently developed, and a woman—­as also that I was but fourteen.

At one of those moments when, lesson-book in hand, I would pace the room, and try to keep strictly to one particular crack in the floor as I hummed a fragment of some tune or repeated some vague formula—­in short, at one of those moments when the mind leaves off thinking and the imagination gains the upper hand and yearns for new impressions—­I left the schoolroom, and turned, with no definite purpose in view, towards the head of the staircase.