regaled us with our purchases, and I thought that she certainly had
wonderful hair and that her smile was unlike any other woman's. I
watched her, and I wanted to detect in every look and movement that
she did not love her husband, and I fancied that I did see it.

Dmitri Petrovitch was soon struggling with sleep. After supper he
sat with us for ten minutes and said:

"Do as you please, my friends, but I have to be up at three o'clock
tomorrow morning. Excuse my leaving you."

He kissed his wife tenderly, pressed my hand with warmth and
gratitude, and made me promise that I would certainly come the
following week. That he might not oversleep next morning, he went
to spend the night in the lodge.

Marya Sergeyevna always sat up late, in the Petersburg fashion, and
for some reason on this occasion I was glad of it.

"And now," I began when we were left alone, "and now you'll be kind
and play me something."

I felt no desire for music, but I did not know how to begin the
conversation. She sat down to the piano and played, I don't remember
what. I sat down beside her and looked at her plump white hands and
tried to read something on her cold, indifferent face. Then she
smiled at something and looked at me.

"You are dull without your friend," she said.