We sit down to dinner. The wounded officer, whose wound in the
temple has affected the muscles of the left cheek, eats as though
he had a bit in his mouth. I roll up little balls of bread, think
about the dog licence, and, knowing the ungovernable violence of
my temper, try to avoid speaking. Nadenka looks at me sympathetically.

Soup, tongue and peas, roast fowl, and compôte. I have no appetite,
but eat from politeness.

After dinner, while I am standing alone on the terrace, smoking,
Nadenka's mamma comes up to me, presses my hand, and says breathlessly:

"Don't despair, _Nicolas!_ She has such a heart, . . . such a heart!
. . ."

We go towards the wood to gather mushrooms. Varenka hangs on my arm
and clings to my side. My sufferings are indescribable, but I bear
them in patience.

We enter the wood.

"Listen, Monsieur Nicolas," says Nadenka, sighing. "Why are you so
melancholy? And why are you so silent?"

Extraordinary girl she is, really! What can I talk to her about?
What have we in common?

"Oh, do say something!" she begs me.

I begin trying to think of something popular, something within the