Iván Mikhailovich sadly gazed upon the stage, listened to the low strains of music, and it seemed to him at times that it was his Xenia thrown into prison, and he recalled how they first met at a ball and how he at the conclusion of it sang: “Amidst the noisy ball,” and how they afterward sat in the dark garden listening to the singing of the nightingale and gazing at the silvery stars. All this was, but it had passed as if in a dream. They returned from the theatre with souls refreshed, overfilled with sadness mingled with joy, and it seemed to both as if all their former disputes and frictions over trivialities had vanished forevermore, and a part of their former happiness had returned to them. They rode home dashingly in a light, new sleigh over the well-beaten road, and Iván Mikhailovich had his arm round Xenia Pavlovna’s waist as tightly as if he feared to lose her on the way. Xenia Pavlovna hid her face in the soft white fur of her collar, and only her sparkling eyes were visible from under a very becoming little hat of the same white fur, like two coals, dark and moist. Iván Mikhailovich wished to kiss her, forgetting that they were in the open road, but Xenia Pavlovna screwed up her eyes, in which lurked silent laughter, and slightly shook her white fur hat. At home the samovár and Maria Petrovna awaited them. The samovár gurgled joyfully, rising importantly in all its beauty and sparkle from the snow-white of the table-cloth; the nice white loaves of bread smelt good and very tempting; and fresh, soft-boiled eggs seemed just waiting to be cracked over the nose with a spoon. And Maria Petrovna, sailing out of the nursery with her old wrap over her shoulders, spoke kindly: “Well, children, you must be quite hungry?” Iván Mikhailovich did not reply. He entered the dimly lighted salon and paced it with a slow tread, smoothed his hair with the palm of his hand and purred: “Angel, Angel Marguerite!” Then he returned to the dining-room, approached Xenia Pavlovna, silently kissed her on the head, and again went into the salon, where he continued purring. “You had better eat and leave ‘Angel Marguerite’ for after,” said Maria Petrovna, thrusting her head into the doorway of the salon. “In a moment! In a moment!” Iván Mikhailovich replied with vexation, and continued walking, wholly surrendering himself to vague emotions and recollections and the feeling of tender sadness for the past.