He said little to me throughout the evening, but in every word he said to Kátya and Sónya and in every look and movement of his I saw love and felt no doubt of it. I was only vexed and sorry for him, that he thought it necessary still to hide his feelings and pretend coldness, when it was all so clear, and when it would have been so simple and easy to be boundlessly happy. But my jumping down to him in the orchard weighed on me like a crime. I kept feeling that he would cease to respect me and was angry with me.
After tea I went to the piano, and he followed me.
“Play me something—it is long since I heard you,” he said, catching me up in the parlour.
“I was just going to,” I said. Then I looked straight in his face and said quickly, “Sergéy Mikháylych, you are not angry with me, are you?”
“What for?” he asked.
“For not obeying you this afternoon,” I said, blushing.
He understood me: he shook his head and made a grimace, which implied that I deserved a scolding but that he did not feel able to give it.
“So it’s all right, and we are friends again?” I said, sitting down at the piano.
“Of course!” he said.
In the drawing room, a large lofty room, there were only two lighted candles on the piano, the rest of the room remaining in half-darkness.