“I have no complaint to make of you,” I said; “I am merely bored and want not to be bored. But you say that it can’t be helped, and, as always, you are right.”
I looked at him as I spoke. I had gained my object: his calmness had disappeared, and I read fear and pain in his face.
“Másha,” he began in a low troubled voice, “this is no mere trifle: the happiness of our lives is at stake. Please hear me out without answering. Why do you wish to torment me?”
But I interrupted him.
“Oh, I know you will turn out to be right. Words are useless; of course you are right.” I spoke coldly, as if some evil spirit were speaking with my voice.
“If you only knew what you are doing!” he said, and his voice shook.
I burst out crying and felt relieved. He sat down beside me and said nothing. I felt sorry for him, ashamed of myself, and annoyed at what I had done. I avoided looking at him. I felt that any look from him at that moment must express severity or perplexity. At last I looked up and saw his eyes: they were fixed on me with a tender gentle expression that seemed to ask for pardon. I caught his hand and said,
“Forgive me! I don’t know myself what I have been saying.”
“But I do; and you spoke the truth.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.