I did not go back to him, but into my own room, where I sat for a long time, crying, recalling with terror every word of our conversation, mentally substituting other words for those we had used, adding different and better ones, then reminding myself again, with a mingled sense of fright and outraged feeling, of all that had taken place. When I came down to tea, in the evening, and in the presence of C., who was making us a visit, met my husband again, I was aware that from this day forward there must be an open gulf between us. C. asked me when we were going to leave the city. I could not answer her. "On Tuesday," replied my husband, "we are staying for Countess R's reception. You are going, no doubt?" he continued, turning to me. I was frightened at the sound of his voice, although it seemed quite as usual, and glanced at my husband. His eyes were fixed on me, with a hard ironical look, his tone was measured, cold. "Yes," I replied. Later, when we were alone, he approached me, and holding out his hand: "Forget, I entreat you, what I said to you." I took his hand, a faint smile came to my trembling lips, and the tears started to my eyes; but he quickly drew it away and, as if fearing a sentimental scene, went and sat down in an arm-chair at some distance from me. "Is it possible that he still believes himself right?" thought I; and I had on my lips a cordial explanation, and a request not to go to the reception. "I must write to mamma that we have postponed our departure," said he, "or she will be uneasy." "And when do you intend to leave?" I asked. "On the Tuesday after the reception." "I hope this is not on my account," said I, looking into his eyes, but they only looked back into mine without telling me anything, as if they were held far from me by some secret force. All at once, his face appeared to me old and disagreeable. We went to the reception, and seemingly our relations were again cordial and affectionate, but in reality they were quite unlike what they had been in the past.