Vassiliev’s heart was beating and his face was burning. He felt ashamed for being there, disgusted and tormented. He was tortured by the thought that he, a decent and affectionate man (so he considered himself up till now), despised these women and felt nothing towards them but repulsion. He could not feel pity for them or for the musicians or the lackeys. “It’s because I don’t try to understand them,” he thought. “They’re all more like beasts than human beings; but all the same they are human beings. They’ve got souls. One should understand them first, then judge them.” “Grisha, don’t go away. Wait for us,” called the painter; and he disappeared somewhere. Soon the medico disappeared also. “Yes, one should try to understand. It’s no good, otherwise,” thought Vassiliev, and he began to examine intently the face of each girl, looking for the guilty smile. But whether he could not read faces or because none of these women felt guilty he saw in each face only a dull look of common, vulgar boredom and satiety. Stupid eyes, stupid smiles, harsh, stupid voices, impudent gestures--and nothing else. Evidently every woman had in her past a love romance with a bookkeeper and fifty roubles’-worth of underclothes. And in the present the only good things in life were coffee, a three-course dinner, wine, quadrilles, and sleeping till two in the afternoon.... Finding not one guilty smile, Vassiliev began to examine them to see if even one looked clever and his attention was arrested by one pale, rather tired face. It was that of a dark woman no longer young, wearing a dress scattered with spangles. She sat in a chair staring at the floor and thinking of something. Vassiliev paced up and down and then sat down beside her as if by accident. “One must begin with something trivial,” he thought, “and gradually pass on to serious conversation....” “What a beautiful little dress you have on,” he said, and touched the gold fringe of her scarf with his finger. “It’s all right,” said the dark woman. “Where do you come from?” “I? A long way. From Tchernigov.” “It’s a nice part.” “It always is, where you don’t happen to be.” “What a pity I can’t describe nature,” thought Vassiliev. “I’d move her by descriptions of Tchernigov. She must love it if she was born there.” “Do you feel lonely here?” he asked. “Of course I’m lonely.” “Why don’t you go away from here, if you’re lonely?” “Where shall I go to? Start begging, eh?” “It’s easier to beg than to live here.” “Where did you get that idea? Have you been a beggar?” “I begged, when I hadn’t enough to pay my university fees; and even if I hadn’t begged it’s easy enough to understand. A beggar is a free man, at any rate, and you’re a slave.” The dark woman stretched herself, and followed with sleepy eyes the lackey who carried a tray of glasses and soda-water. “Stand us a champagne,” she said, and yawned again.