He steadied himself by the doorsill; and Jadvyga in her anxiety⁠—for she was fond of Ona⁠—opened the door wide, holding her jacket across her throat. “Are you sure you didn’t misunderstand her?” she cried. “She must have meant somewhere else. She⁠—”

“She said here,” insisted Jurgis. “She told me all about you, and how you were, and what you said. Are you sure? You haven’t forgotten? You weren’t away?”

“No, no!” she exclaimed⁠—and then came a peevish voice⁠—“Jadvyga, you are giving the baby a cold. Shut the door!” Jurgis stood for half a minute more, stammering his perplexity through an eighth of an inch of crack; and then, as there was really nothing more to be said, he excused himself and went away.

He walked on half dazed, without knowing where he went. Ona had deceived him! She had lied to him! And what could it mean⁠—where had she been? Where was she now? He could hardly grasp the thing⁠—much less try to solve it; but a hundred wild surmises came to him, a sense of impending calamity overwhelmed him.