The looks of the plain Countess Márya always improved when she was in tears. She never cried from pain or vexation, but always from sorrow or pity, and when she wept her radiant eyes acquired an irresistible charm.

The moment Nikoláy took her hand she could no longer restrain herself and began to cry.

“Nicolas, I saw it⁠ ⁠… he was to blame, but why do you⁠ ⁠… Nicolas!” and she covered her face with her hands.

Nikoláy said nothing. He flushed crimson, left her side, and paced up and down the room. He understood what she was weeping about, but could not in his heart at once agree with her that what he had regarded from childhood as quite an everyday event was wrong. “Is it just sentimentality, old wives’ tales, or is she right?” he asked himself. Before he had solved that point he glanced again at her face filled with love and pain, and he suddenly realized that she was right and that he had long been sinning against himself.