He came in and stood still near the door. His eyes looked dim and
his red little nose was shiny. After dinner he used to drink beer,
and the fact was perceptible in his walk, in his feeble, flabby
hands.

"What's this?" he asked, pointing to the basket.

"I am packing. Forgive me, Nikolay Sergeitch, but I cannot remain
in your house. I feel deeply insulted by this search!"

"I understand. . . . Only you are wrong to go. Why should you?
They've searched your things, but you . . . what does it matter to
you? You will be none the worse for it."

Mashenka was silent and went on packing. Nikolay Sergeitch pinched
his moustache, as though wondering what he should say next, and
went on in an ingratiating voice:

"I understand, of course, but you must make allowances. You know
my wife is nervous, headstrong; you mustn't judge her too harshly."

Mashenka did not speak.

"If you are so offended," Nikolay Sergeitch went on, "well, if you
like, I'm ready to apologise. I ask your pardon."

Mashenka made no answer, but only bent lower over her box. This
exhausted, irresolute man was of absolutely no significance in the
household. He stood in the pitiful position of a dependent and