the flunkey's obsequiousness; his smile was sugary, and in his
buttonhole there was some badge of distinction like the number on
a waiter.

During the first interval the husband went away to smoke; she
remained alone in her stall. Gurov, who was sitting in the stalls,
too, went up to her and said in a trembling voice, with a forced
smile:

"Good-evening."

She glanced at him and turned pale, then glanced again with horror,
unable to believe her eyes, and tightly gripped the fan and the
lorgnette in her hands, evidently struggling with herself not to
faint. Both were silent. She was sitting, he was standing, frightened
by her confusion and not venturing to sit down beside her. The
violins and the flute began tuning up. He felt suddenly frightened;
it seemed as though all the people in the boxes were looking at
them. She got up and went quickly to the door; he followed her, and
both walked senselessly along passages, and up and down stairs, and
figures in legal, scholastic, and civil service uniforms, all wearing
badges, flitted before their eyes. They caught glimpses of ladies,
of fur coats hanging on pegs; the draughts blew on them, bringing
a smell of stale tobacco. And Gurov, whose heart was beating
violently, thought:

"Oh, heavens! Why are these people here and this orchestra! . . ."

And at that instant he recalled how when he had seen Anna Sergeyevna
off at the station he had thought that everything was over and they