it is to get out of it. I will say to him, 'You have been carried
away by the false part you are playing; you have insulted people
who were attached to you and have done you no harm. Go and apologize
to them, laugh at yourself, and you will feel better. And if you
want peace and solitude, let us go away together.'"

Meeting his wife's gaze, Pyotr Dmitritch's face immediately assumed
the expression it had worn at dinner and in the garden--indifferent
and slightly ironical. He yawned and got up.

"It's past five," he said, looking at his watch. "If our visitors
are merciful and leave us at eleven, even then we have another six
hours of it. It's a cheerful prospect, there's no denying!"

And whistling something, he walked slowly out of the study with his
usual dignified gait. She could hear him with dignified firmness
cross the dining-room, then the drawing-room, laugh with dignified
assurance, and say to the young man who was playing, "Bravo! bravo!"
Soon his footsteps died away: he must have gone out into the garden.
And now not jealousy, not vexation, but real hatred of his footsteps,
his insincere laugh and voice, took possession of Olga Mihalovna.
She went to the window and looked out into the garden. Pyotr Dmitritch
was already walking along the avenue. Putting one hand in his pocket
and snapping the fingers of the other, he walked with confident
swinging steps, throwing his head back a little, and looking as
though he were very well satisfied with himself, with his dinner,
with his digestion, and with nature. . . .

Two little schoolboys, the children of Madame Tchizhevsky, who had
only just arrived, made their appearance in the avenue, accompanied