Glancing into the mirror, he saw himself pale, dull, and sallow. Involuntarily he pictured to his mind those handsome young fellows who would one day come her way. Suddenly she would take fire, glance at him, and--burst out laughing! A second time he glanced into the mirror. No, he was _not_ the type with which women could fall in love! He flung himself down upon the bed, and buried his face in the pillow. “Forgive me, Olga!” he murmured. “And may you always be happy!” He gave orders that he was to be reported as “not at home” to any one who might call from the Ilyinskis’ house. Then he sat down to write Olga a letter. He wrote it swiftly. In fact, the pen flew over the pages. And when he had finished the missive he was surprised to find that his spirits felt cheered, and his mind easier. “Why so?” he reflected. “Probably because I have put into what I have just written the whole sorrow of my heart.” Next, he dispatched the letter by the hand of Zakhar, and, leaving the house, turned into the park, and seated himself on the grass. Among the turf-shoots ants were scurrying hither and thither, and jostling one another, and parting again. From above, the scene looked like the commotion in a human market-place--it showed the same bustle, the same congestion, the same swarm of population. Here and there, too, a bumble bee buzzed over a flower, and then crept into its chalice, while a knot of flies had glued themselves to a drop of sap on the trunk of a lime-tree, in the foliage a bird was repeating an ever-insistent note (as though calling to its mate), and a couple of butterflies were tumbling through the air in a giddy, fluttering, intricate movement which resembled a waltz. Everywhere from the herbage strong scents could be detected arising; everywhere there could be heard a ceaseless chirping and twittering. Suddenly he saw Olga approaching. Walking very quietly, she was wiping her eyes with a handkerchief as she did so. He had not expected those tears. Somehow they seemed to sear his heart. He rose and ran to meet her. “Olga, Olga!” were his first tender words. She started, looked at him with an air of astonishment, and turned away. He followed her. “You are weeping?” he said. “Yes, and’ is _you_ have made me do so,” she replied, while her form shook with sobs. “But it is beyond your power to comfort me.” “That miserable letter!” he ejaculated, suddenly becoming full of remorse. For answer she opened a basket which she was carrying, took from it the letter, and handed it to him. “Take it away,” she said. “The sight of it will only make me weep more bitterly.” He stuffed it silently into his pocket, and, with head bent, seated himself beside her.