A little later they bring in the lamp. The familiar shadows that have wearied me for years fall from the chairs and the lamp-shade on to the walls and the floor. When I look at them it seems that it’s night already, and the cursed insomnia has begun. I lie down on the bed; then I get up and walk about the room then lie down again. My nervous excitement generally reaches its highest after dinner, before the evening. For no reason I begin to cry and hide my head in the pillow. All the while I am afraid somebody may come in; I am afraid I shall die suddenly; I am ashamed of my tears; altogether, something intolerable is happening in my soul. I feel I cannot look at the lamp or the books or the shadows on the floor, or listen to the voices in the drawing-room any more. Some invisible, mysterious force pushes me rudely out of my house. I jump up, dress hurriedly, and go cautiously out into the street so that the household shall not notice me. Where shall I go? The answer to this question has long been there in my brain: “To Katy.” III As usual she is lying on the Turkish divan or the couch and reading something. Seeing me she lifts her head languidly, sits down, and gives me her hand. “You are always lying down like that,” I say after a reposeful silence. “It’s unhealthy. You’d far better be doing something.” “Ah?” “You’d far better be doing something, I say.” “What?... A woman can be either a simple worker or an actress.” “Well, then--if you can’t become a worker, be an actress.” She is silent. “You had better marry,” I say, half-joking. “There’s no one to marry: and no use if I did.” “You can’t go on living like this.” “Without a husband? As if that mattered. There are as many men as you like, if you only had the will.” “This isn’t right, Katy.” “What isn’t right?” “What you said just now.” Katy sees that I am chagrined, and desires to soften the bad impression. “Come. Let’s come here. Here.” She leads me into a small room, very cosy, and points to the writing table. “There. I made it for you. You’ll work here. Come every day and bring your work with you. They only disturb you there at home.... Will you work here? Would you like to?” In order not to hurt her by refusing, I answer that I shall work with her and that I like the room immensely. Then we both sit down in the cosy room and begin to talk. The warmth, the cosy surroundings, the presence of a sympathetic being, rouses in me now not a feeling of pleasure as it used but a strong desire to complain and grumble. Anyhow it seems to me that if I moan and complain I shall feel better. “It’s a bad business, my dear,” I begin with a sigh. “Very bad.” “What is the matter?”