me out of Petersburg? Why did you make me promises, why did you rouse mad hopes? Your convictions have changed; you have become a different man, and nobody blames you for it—our convictions are not always in our power. But…but, Vladimir Ivanitch, for God’s sake, why are you not sincere?” she went on softly, coming up to me. “All these months when I have been dreaming aloud, raving, going into raptures over my plans, remodelling my life on a new pattern, why didn’t you tell me the truth? Why were you silent or encouraged me by your stories, and behaved as though you were in complete sympathy with me? Why was it? Why was it necessary?”

“It’s difficult to acknowledge one’s bankruptcy,” I said, turning round, but not looking at her. “Yes, I have no faith; I am worn out. I have lost heart.…It is difficult to be truthful—very difficult, and I held my tongue. God forbid that any one should have to go through what I have been through.”

I felt that I was on the point of tears, and ceased speaking.

“Vladimir Ivanitch,” she said, and took me by both hands, “you have been through so much and seen so much of life, you know more than I do; think seriously, and tell me, what am I to do? Teach me! If you haven’t the strength to go forward yourself and take others with you, at least show me where to go. After all, I am a living, feeling, thinking being. To sink into a false position…to play an absurd part…is painful to me. I don’t reproach you, I don’t blame you; I only ask you.”

Tea was brought in.

“Well?” said Zinaida Fyodorovna, giving me a glass. “What do you say to me?”

“There is more light in the world than you see through your window,” I answered. “And there are other people besides me, Zinaida Fyodorovna.”

“Then tell me who they are,” she said eagerly. “That’s all I ask of you.”

“And I want to say, too,” I went on, “one can serve an idea in more than one calling. If one has made a mistake and lost faith in one, one may find another. The world of ideas is large and cannot be exhausted.”

“The world of ideas!” she said, and she looked into my face sarcastically. “Then we had better leave off talking. What’s the use?…”

She flushed.

“The world of ideas!” she repeated. She threw her dinner-napkin aside, and an expression of indignation and contempt came into her face. “All your fine ideas, I see, lead up to one inevitable, essential step: I ought to become your mistress. That’s what’s wanted. To be taken up with ideas without being the mistress of an honourable, progressive man, is as good as not understanding the ideas. One has to begin with that…that is, with being your mistress, and the rest will come of itself.”

“You are irritated, Zinaida Fyodorovna,” I said.

“No, I am sincere!” she cried, breathing hard. “I am sincere!”

“You are sincere, perhaps, but you are in error, and it hurts me to hear you.”

“I am in error?” she laughed. “Any one else might say that, but not you, my dear sir! I may seem to you indelicate, cruel, but I don’t care: you love me? You love me, don’t you?”

I shrugged my shoulders.

“Yes, shrug your shoulders!” she went on sarcastically. “When you were ill I heard you in your delirium, and ever since these adoring eyes, these sighs, and edifying conversations about friendship, about spiritual