Xenia Pavlovna ate her orange, and gazed at the men who passed them. “They are all different here from what they are at home,” she thought; “they are all rude, all go to their clubs, and my Vania is in reality much better than many of these men.” “How did you like Marguerite, Vania?” “Pretty well--though, after Alma Fostrem, she is, of course--” “Have you heard Alma in that rôle?” “Well, I like that, really! Did we not hear her together at St. Petersburg! Have you forgotten already?” “Ach, that was so long ago.” “Though this opera is immortal by itself, I have seen it over a hundred times, and will be glad to see it as many times more. Here one sees life as in a mirror--Yes--Do you remember--in the garden?” he concluded in a low voice, leaning toward his wife. Xenia Pavlovna’s face was covered with a slight blush, and her eyes had a thoughtful, far-away look in them, which gradually grew sad and dreamy. “All this was, but it has passed as if in a dream,” her lips whispered, and her head swayed on her beautiful bare neck. Here some acquaintances passed and, pressing their hands warmly, inquired: “How are you?” “Very well, thank you. And you?” “Pretty well, as usual. But you, Xenia Pavlovna, still continue to grow more beautiful!” Xenia Pavlovna blushed, and a hardly perceptible shade of pleasure flitted over her face, and made it sweet and strong and proud. “What are you saying!” she replied, slightly screwing up her eyes and coquettishly fanning herself. “On the contrary, I think I am growing worse looking with each passing day!” Then all the men began to protest in chorus, and the women silently fixed their coiffures with their fingers, while Iván Mikhailovich looked at his wife and thought that she was really a very lovely woman, probably one of the loveliest in the whole theatre, and he also began to feel very pleased, and twirling his mustaches, he spoke proudly: “You ought to see her portrait when she was my fiancée! It hangs over my desk. She had a braid twice as thick as this Marguerite’s--” In the last scene a whole revolution took place in the soul of Iván Mikhailovich. He began to imagine Xenia Pavlovna overtaken by the sad fate of Marguerite, and himself in the rôle of Faust, and grew very sorry for Xenia Pavlovna. The gloomy arches of the prison, on the gray stone floor some straw, and on it this woman, outraged, criminal, insane, and nevertheless so pure and saintly; the low melodies so full of sadness and tenderness in which arose hazy memories of past happiness, made Iván Mikhailovich’s breath come faster. He looked at Xenia Pavlovna, and noticing tears in her eyes, felt that this woman was very dear to him and that he was somehow very guilty toward her.