“Scheusal!” Hurling hotly this epithet at him—her breath had risen many degrees in temperature at its passage, and her breast heaved in dashing it out (as though, in fact, the word “scheusal” had been the living thing, and she were emptying her breast of it violently), she left the room. His last exploit had been accomplished in a half disillusioned state. He merely went on farcing because he could think of nothing else to do. Anastasya’s laughter had upset and ended everything of his “imaginary life.” He told himself now that he _hated_ her. “Ich hasse dich! Ich hasse dich!” he hissed over to himself, enjoying the wind of the “hasse” in his moustaches. But (there was no doubt about it) the laugh had crushed him. Ridiculous and hateful had been his goal. But now that he had succeeded he thought chiefly in the latter affair, he was overwhelmed. His vanity was wounded terribly. In _laughing_ at him she had puffed out and transformed in an extraordinary way, also, his infatuation. For the first time since he had first set eyes on her he realized her sex. His sensuality had been directly stirred. He wanted to _kiss_ her now. He must get his mouth on hers—he must revel in the laugh, where it grew! She was _néfaste_. She was in fact evidently _the devil_. So his _idée fixe_ having suddenly taken body and acquired flesh, now allied to his senses, the vibration became more definitely alarming. He began thinking about her with a slow moistening of the lips. “I _shall possess_ her!” he laid to himself, seeing himself in the rôle of the old Berserker warrior, ravening and irresistible. The use of the word _shall_ in that way was enough. But this _infernal_ dance! With the advent of the _real_ feeling all the artificial ones flew or diminished at once. He was no longer romantically “desperate,” but bored with his useless position there. All his attention was now concentrated on a practical issue, that of the “possession” of Anastasya. He was tired as though he had been dancing the whole evening. He got up and threw his cigarette away; he even dusted his coat a little with his hand. He then, not being able to get at the white patch on the shoulder, took it off and shook it. A large grey handkerchief was used to flick his boots with. “So!” he grunted, smartly shooting on his coat. The central room, when he got into it, appeared a different place. People were standing about and waiting for the next tune. It had been completely changed by his novel and material feeling for Anastasya. Everything, for a second time, was quite ordinary, but _not_ electrically ordinary, almost hushed, this time. He had become a practical man, surrounded by facts. But he was much more worried and tired than at the beginning of the evening.