She did not finish her sentence, and looked away dreamily. At that instant there came from the garden the sound of rustling leaves, suddenly fluttering in the rising wind. Vera Nikolaevna started and looked round towards the open window. ‘I told you there would be a storm!’ cried Priemkov. ‘But what made you start like that, Verotchka?’ She glanced at him without speaking. A faint, far-off flash of lightning threw a mysterious light on her motionless face. ‘It’s all due to your _Faust_,’ Priemkov went on. ‘After supper we must all go to by-by.… Mustn’t we, Herr Schimmel?’ ‘After intellectual enjoyment physical repose is as grateful as it is beneficial,’ responded the kind-hearted German, and he drank a wine-glass of vodka. Immediately after supper we separated. As I said good-night to Vera Nikolaevna I pressed her hand; her hand was cold. I went up to the room assigned to me, and stood a long while at the window before I undressed and got into bed. Priemkov’s prediction was fulfilled; the storm came close, and broke. I listened to the roar of the wind, the patter and splash of the rain, and watched how the church, built close by, above the lake, at each flash of lightning stood out, at one moment black against a background of white, at the next white against a background of black, and then was swallowed up in the darkness again.… But my thoughts were far away. I kept thinking of Vera Nikolaevna, of what she would say to me when she had read _Faust_ herself, I thought of her tears, remembered how she had listened.… The storm had long passed away, the stars came out, all was hushed around. Some bird I did not know sang different notes, several times in succession repeating the same phrase. Its clear, solitary voice rang out strangely in the deep stillness; and still I did not go to bed.… Next morning, earlier than all the rest, I was down in the drawing-room. I stood before the portrait of Madame Eltsov. ‘Aha,’ I thought, with a secret feeling of ironical triumph, ‘after all, I have read your daughter a forbidden book!’ All at once I fancied--you have most likely noticed that eyes _en face_ always seem fixed straight on any one looking at a picture--but this time I positively fancied the old lady moved them with a reproachful look on me. I turned round, went to the window, and caught sight of Vera Nikolaevna. With a parasol on her shoulder and a light white kerchief on her head, she was walking about the garden. I went out at once and said good-morning to her. ‘I didn’t sleep all night,’ she said; ‘my head aches; I came out into the air--it may go off.’ ‘Can that be the result of yesterday’s reading?’ I asked. ‘Of course; I am not used to it. There are things in your book I can’t get out of my mind; I feel as though they were simply turning my head,’ she added, putting her hand to her forehead.