It had seemed to her that nothing was easier than to write a few cordial phrases, which go directly from one heart to another. But how difficult! A letter has no eyes, which fill with tears; no face, which smiles both sadly and sweetly; no voice, which trembles; no hands to stretch forth. You may read and understand a letter as you like; it is merely black letters on paper as impassive as death. Marynia had just torn the third sheet, when the face of Pan Plavitski, as wrinkled as a roast apple, and with mustaches freshly dyed, showed itself at the door partly open. "Is Polanyetski not here?" inquired he. "He is not, papa." "But will he come this evening?" "I do not know," answered she, with a sigh. "If he comes, my child, tell him that I will return not later than an hour from now; and that I wish to speak with him." "And I too wish to speak with him," thought Marynia. And when she had torn the third sheet she took the fourth and was thinking whether to turn the whole quarrel into a jest, or simply to beg his pardon. The jest might not please him; in the pardon there was something warmer, but how difficult it was! If he had not fled, it would have sufficed to extend her hand; but he flew out as if shot from a sling, the irritable man, though so much loved. And, raising her eyes, she began to work intently with her dark head, when on a sudden the bell sounded in the entrance. Marynia's heart was beating like a hammer; and through her head flew these questions, like lightning,-- "Is it he? Is it not he?" The door opened; it was he. He came in with the look of a wolf, his head down, his face gloomy. Evidently he was very uncertain how she would receive him; but she sprang up, her heart beating like a bird's heart; her eyes radiant, happy, touched greatly by his return; and, running to him, she laid her hands on his shoulders. "But how good! how nice! And do you know, I wanted to write to you." Pan Stanislav, pressing her hands to his lips, was silent for some time; at last he said,-- "You ought to give the order to throw me downstairs." In a rapture of thankfulness he drew her up to him, kissed her lips, eyes, temples, and hair, which became unbound in the pressure. In such moments it seemed to him always that he would find everything that goes to make great and perfect love. At last he released her and continued,-- "You are too good. Though that is better, it subdues me. I came to beg your forgiveness, nothing more. I regained my senses at once. I reproached myself for my last words, and I cannot tell you how sorry I was. I walked along the street, thinking to see you in the window, perhaps, and note from your face whether I might come in. After that I could not restrain myself, and returned." "I beg pardon; it was my fault. You see the torn paper; I wrote and wrote."