nothing was said, I knew that it was all over—that it was he. Yesterday, on leaving, he pressed my hand. We were on the landing of the staircase. I do not know why, but I felt that I was blushing. He looked at me, and he blushed also; and lost his head so completely that he turned round and ran downstairs, dropped his hat, picked it up, and stopped outside in the porch.
I went upstairs and looked out of the window. His carriage drove up, but he did not get in. I leaned out to look into the porch. He was standing there, stroking his beard into his mouth, and biting it. I was afraid he might turn round, and so I moved away from the window, and at the same moment I heard his step on the stairs. He was running up quickly, impetuously. How I knew I cannot say, but I went to the door and stood still, waiting. My heart ceased to beat; it seemed to stand still, and my breast heaved painfully, yet joyfully. Why I knew I cannot say. But I knew. He might very well have run upstairs and said, “I beg your pardon, I forgot my cigarettes,” or something like that. That might very well have happened. What should I have done then? But no, that was impossible. What was to be—was. His face was solemn, timid, determined, and joyful. His eyes shone, his lips quivered. He had his overcoat on, and held his hat in his hand. We were alone—everyone was on the veranda, “Marie Alexandrovna,” he said, stopping on the last step, “it’s best to have it over once for all than to go on in misery, and perhaps to upset you.” I felt ill at ease, but painfully happy. Those dear eyes, that beautiful forehead, those trembling lips, so much more used to smiling, and the timidity of the strong energetic figure! I felt sobs rising to my throat. I expect he saw the expression on my face.
“Marie Alexandrovna, you know what I want to tell you, don’t you?”
“I don’t know …” I began. “Yes, I do.”
“Yes,” he went on, “you know what I mean to ask you, and do not dare.” He broke off, and then, suddenly, as though angry with himself: “Well,