The petrified husband, rosy-faced, turned white.

An agonising, strange, soul-revolting silence lasted for three minutes. Oh, those three minutes! Groholsky remembers them to this day.

The first to move and break the silence was the husband. He stepped up to Groholsky and, screwing his face into a senseless grimace like a smile, gave him his hand. Groholsky shook the soft perspiring hand and shuddered all over as though he had crushed a cold frog in his fist.

“Good evening,” he muttered.

“How are you?” the husband brought out in a faint husky, almost inaudible voice, and he sat down opposite Groholsky, straightening his collar at the back of his neck.

Again, an agonising silence followed⁠ ⁠… but that silence was no longer so stupid.⁠ ⁠… The first step, most difficult and colourless, was over.

All that was left now was for one of the two to depart in search of matches or on some such trifling errand. Both longed intensely to get away. They sat still, not looking at one another, and pulled at their beards while they ransacked their troubled brains for some means of escape from their horribly awkward position. Both were perspiring. Both were unbearably miserable and both were devoured by hatred. They longed to begin the tussle but how were they to begin and which was to begin first? If only she would have gone out!

“I saw you yesterday at the Assembly Hall,” muttered Bugrov (that was the husband’s name).

“Yes, I was there⁠ ⁠… the ball⁠ ⁠… did you dance?”

“M’m⁠ ⁠… yes⁠ ⁠… with that⁠ ⁠… with the younger Lyukovtsky.⁠ ⁠… She dances heavily.⁠ ⁠… She dances impossibly. She is a great chatterbox.” (Pause.) “She is never tired of talking.”

“Yes.⁠ ⁠… It was slow. I saw you too⁠ ⁠…”