I went into the drawing-room. Marya Sergeyevna was standing, as
before, near the fireplace, with her hands behind her back, looking
away and thinking of something.

"Why does it make no difference to you?" I asked.

"Because I am bored. You are only bored without your friend, but I
am always bored. However . . . that is of no interest to you."

I sat down to the piano and struck a few chords, waiting to hear
what she would say.

"Please don't stand on ceremony," she said, looking angrily at me,
and she seemed as though on the point of crying with vexation. "If
you are sleepy, go to bed. Because you are Dmitri Petrovitch's
friend, you are not in duty bound to be bored with his wife's
company. I don't want a sacrifice. Please go."

I did not, of course, go to bed. She went out on the verandah while
I remained in the drawing-room and spent five minutes turning over
the music. Then I went out, too. We stood close together in the
shadow of the curtains, and below us were the steps bathed in
moonlight. The black shadows of the trees stretched across the
flower beds and the yellow sand of the paths.

"I shall have to go away tomorrow, too," I said.

"Of course, if my husband's not at home you can't stay here," she
said sarcastically. "I can imagine how miserable you would be if