Seeing that he was not prevented from holding her arm, Volodya
glanced at Nyuta's laughing face, and clumsily, awkwardly, put both
arms round her waist, his hands meeting behind her back. He held
her round the waist with both arms, while, putting her hands up to
her head, showing the dimples in her elbows, she set her hair
straight under the kerchief and said in a calm voice:

"You must be tactful, polite, charming, and you can only become
that under feminine influence. But what a wicked, angry face you
have! You must talk, laugh. . . . Yes, Volodya, don't be surly; you
are young and will have plenty of time for philosophising. Come,
let go of me; I am going. Let go."

Without effort she released her waist, and, humming something,
walked out of the arbour. Volodya was left alone. He smoothed his
hair, smiled, and walked three times to and fro across the arbour,
then he sat down on the bench and smiled again. He felt insufferably
ashamed, so much so that he wondered that human shame could reach
such a pitch of acuteness and intensity. Shame made him smile,
gesticulate, and whisper some disconnected words.

He was ashamed that he had been treated like a small boy, ashamed
of his shyness, and, most of all, that he had had the audacity to
put his arms round the waist of a respectable married woman, though,
as it seemed to him, he had neither through age nor by external
quality, nor by social position any right to do so.

He jumped up, went out of the arbour, and, without looking round,
walked into the recesses of the garden furthest from the house.