the street by the fence, waiting for the chance. He saw a beggar
go in at the gate and dogs fly at him; then an hour later he heard
a piano, and the sounds were faint and indistinct. Probably it was
Anna Sergeyevna playing. The front door suddenly opened, and an old
woman came out, followed by the familiar white Pomeranian. Gurov
was on the point of calling to the dog, but his heart began beating
violently, and in his excitement he could not remember the dog's
name.

He walked up and down, and loathed the grey fence more and more,
and by now he thought irritably that Anna Sergeyevna had forgotten
him, and was perhaps already amusing herself with some one else,
and that that was very natural in a young woman who had nothing to
look at from morning till night but that confounded fence. He went
back to his hotel room and sat for a long while on the sofa, not
knowing what to do, then he had dinner and a long nap.

"How stupid and worrying it is!" he thought when he woke and looked
at the dark windows: it was already evening. "Here I've had a good
sleep for some reason. What shall I do in the night?"

He sat on the bed, which was covered by a cheap grey blanket, such
as one sees in hospitals, and he taunted himself in his vexation:

"So much for the lady with the dog . . . so much for the adventure
. . . . You're in a nice fix. . . ."

That morning at the station a poster in large letters had caught
his eye. "The Geisha" was to be performed for the first time. He
thought of this and went to the theatre.