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A mazurka tune struck up. The officers fell to bounding up and down, tapping with their heels, and tossing the epaulettes on their shoulders; the civilians tapped with their heels too. Lutchkov still did not stir from his place, and slowly followed the couples with his eyes, as they whirled by. Some one touched his sleeve… he looked round; his neighbour pointed him out Masha. She was standing before him with downcast eyes, holding out her hand to him. Lutchkov for the first moment gazed at her in perplexity, then he carelessly took off his sword, threw his hat on the floor, picked his way awkwardly among the arm-chairs, took Masha by the hand, and went round the circle, with no capering up and down nor stamping, as it were unwillingly performing an unpleasant duty…. Masha’s heart beat violently.

‘Why don’t you dance?’ she asked him at last.

‘I don’t care for it,’ answered Lutchkov.

‘Where’s your place?’

‘Over there.’

Lutchkov conducted Masha to her chair, coolly bowed to her and coolly returned to his corner… but there was an agreeable stirring of the spleen within him.

Kister asked Masha for a dance.

‘What a strange person your friend is!’

‘He does interest you…’ said Fyodor Fedoritch, with a sly twinkle of his blue and kindly eyes.

‘Yes… he must be very unhappy.’

‘He unhappy? What makes you suppose so?’ And Fyodor Fedoritch laughed.

‘You don’t know… you don’t know…’ Masha solemnly shook her head with an important air.

‘Me not know? How’s that?’…

Masha shook her head again and glanced towards Lutchkov. Avdey Ivanovitch noticed the glance, shrugged his shoulders imperceptibly, and walked away into the other room.

III

Several months had passed since that evening. Lutchkov had not once been at the Perekatovs’. But Kister visited them pretty often. Nenila Makarievna had taken a fancy to him, but it was not she that attracted Fyodor Fedoritch. He liked Masha. Being an inexperienced person who had not yet talked himself out, he derived great pleasure from the interchange of ideas and feelings, and he had a simple-hearted faith in the possibility of a calm and exalted friendship between a young man and a young girl.

One day his three well-fed and skittish horses whirled him rapidly along to Mr. Perekatov’s house. It was a summer day, close and sultry. Not a cloud anywhere. The blue of the sky was so thick and dark on the horizon that the eye mistook it for storm-cloud. The house Mr. Perekatov had erected for a summer residence had been, with the foresight usual in the steppes, built with every window directly facing the sun. Nenila Makarievna had every shutter closed from early morning. Kister walked into the cool, half-dark drawing-room. The light lay in long lines on the floor and in short, close streaks on the walls. The Perekatov family gave Fyodor Fedoritch a friendly reception. After dinner Nenila Makarievna went away to her own room to lie down; Mr. Perekatov settled himself on the sofa in the drawing-room; Masha sat near the window at her embroidery frame, Kister facing her. Masha, without opening her frame, leaned lightly over it, with her head in her hands. Kister began telling her something; she listened inattentively, as though waiting for something, looked from time to time towards her father, and all at once stretched out her hand.

‘Listen, Fyodor Fedoritch… only speak a little more softly… papa’s asleep.’

Mr. Perekatov had indeed as usual dropped asleep on the sofa, with his head hanging and his mouth a little open.

‘What is it?’ Kister inquired with curiosity.

‘You will laugh at me.’

‘Oh, no, really!…’

Masha let her head sink till only the upper part of her face remained uncovered by her hands and in a half whisper, not without hesitation, asked Kister why it was he never brought Mr. Lutchkov with him. It was not the first time Masha had mentioned him since the ball…. Kister did not speak. Masha glanced timorously over her interlaced fingers.