About half a mile from the station, he sat down on a stone by the
side of the road, and gazed at the sun, which was half hidden behind
a barrow. There were lights already here and there at the station,
and one green light glimmered dimly, but the train was not yet in
sight. It was pleasant to Volodya to sit still without moving, and
to watch the evening coming little by little. The darkness of the
arbour, the footsteps, the smell of the bath-house, the laughter,
and the waist--all these rose with amazing vividness before his
imagination, and all this was no longer so terrible and important
as before.

"It's of no consequence. . . . She did not pull her hand away, and
laughed when I held her by the waist," he thought. "So she must
have liked it. If she had disliked it she would have been angry
. . . ."

And now Volodya felt sorry that he had not had more boldness there
in the arbour. He felt sorry that he was so stupidly going away,
and he was by now persuaded that if the same thing happened again
he would be bolder and look at it more simply.

And it would not be difficult for the opportunity to occur again.
They used to stroll about for a long time after supper at the
Shumihins'. If Volodya went for a walk with Nyuta in the dark garden,
there would be an opportunity!

"I will go back," he thought, "and will go by the morning train
to-morrow. . . . I will say I have missed the train."

And he turned back. . . . Madame Shumihin, _Maman_, Nyuta, and one