Volochine had clothed his puny little body in virgin white, after sprinkling himself from head to foot with various essences; and, although he did not exactly approve of Sarudine’s society, he hailed a _droschky_ and hastened to the latter’s rooms. Sarudine was sitting at the window, drinking cold tea. “What a lovely evening!” he kept saying to himself, as he looked out on the garden. But his thoughts were elsewhere. He felt ashamed and afraid. He was afraid of Lida. Since their interview, he had not set eyes on her. To him she seemed another Lida now, unlike the one that had surrendered to his passion. “Anyhow,” he thought, “the matter is not at an end yet. The child must be got rid of … or shall I treat the whole thing as a joke? I wonder what she is doing now?” He seemed to see before him Lida’s handsome, inscrutable eyes, and her lips tightly compressed, vindictive, menacing. “She may be going to pay me out? A girl of that sort isn’t one to be trifled with. At all costs I shall have to …” The prospect of a huge scandal vaguely suggested itself, striking terror to his craven heart. “After all,” he thought, “what could she possibly do?” Then suddenly it all seemed quite clear and simple. “Perhaps she’ll drown herself? Let her go to the deuce! I didn’t force her to do it! They’ll say that she was my mistress—well, what of that? It only proves that I am a good- looking fellow. I never said that I would marry her. Upon my word, it’s too silly!” Sarudine shrugged his shoulders, yet the sense of oppression was not lessened. “People will talk, I expect, and I shan’t be able to show myself,” he thought, while his hand trembled slightly as he held the glass of cold, over-sweetened tea to his lips. He was as smart and well-groomed and scented as ever, yet it seemed as if, on his face, his white jacket, and his hands, and even on his heart, there was a foul stain which became even greater. “Bah! After a while it will all blow over. And it’s not the first time, either!” Thus he sought to soothe his conscience, but an inward voice refused to accept such consolation. Volochine entered gingerly, his boots creaking loudly, and his discoloured teeth revealed by a condescending smile. The room was instantly filled with an odour of musk and of tobacco, quite overpowering the fresh scents of the garden. “Ah! how do you do, Pavel Lvovitsch!” cried Sarudine as he hastily rose. Volochine shook hands, sat down by the window and proceeded to light a cigar. He looked so elegant and self-possessed, that Sarudine felt somewhat envious, and endeavoured to assume an equally careless demeanour; but ever since Lida had flung the word “brute” in his face, he had felt ill at ease, as if every one had heard the insult and was secretly mocking him.