“Márya, don’t talk nonsense. You ought to be ashamed of yourself!” he said gaily.

“It seems to be that you can’t love me, that I am so plain⁠ ⁠… always⁠ ⁠… and now⁠ ⁠… in this cond⁠ ⁠…”

“Oh, how absurd you are! It is not beauty that endears, it’s love that makes us see beauty. It is only Malvina and women of that kind who are loved for their beauty. But do I love my wife? I don’t love her, but⁠ ⁠… I don’t know how to put it. Without you, or when something comes between us like this, I seem lost and can’t do anything. Now do I love my finger? I don’t love it, but just try to cut it off!”

“I’m not like that myself, but I understand. So you’re not angry with me?”

“Awfully angry!” he said, smiling and getting up. And smoothing his hair he began to pace the room.

“Do you know, Márya, what I’ve been thinking?” he began, immediately thinking aloud in his wife’s presence now that they had made it up.