We met at a dinner-party a few days after his arrival. At the sight of him my heart began to beat very quickly. Do what I would to banish him from my thoughts, I never ceased to love him; but he looked so frigid when he came up to me that I was cut to the quick. Surely he might look a little more pleased at seeing me! Was he doing it to provoke me? I felt that something had broken between us and that we should never be the same to each other after that night. My anger rose against him and I tried to look stolidly indifferent, and if possible, to be more frigid than he was. I ignored Serge Michailovitch the whole evening and behaved shockingly, talking a lot of stupid nonsense; I did not know myself what I was saying and mamma looked disapprovingly at me across the table. I own that my behaviour was shameful and that I deserved to have lost the best husband that ever a woman desired. When I got home the evil spirit went out of me and I felt awfully remorseful. I would not lose Serge Michailovitch for anyone or anything in this world. I was not going to run away from my happiness, and at any price I had to see him again and make it up with him; whatever happened, I must not let him go. I resolved therefore upon the desperate step of writing to him, and it had to be done at once or my courage would fail me. I sat down and scribbled a few lines telling him that I wanted to apologise for my extremely silly conduct. His answer contained an appointment for the following afternoon at four o’clock; he asked me to come out for a ride with him. I passed a restless night glowing with impatience at the next day’s rendezvous. I wanted to see him so much, yet I dreaded the ordeal. How could I meet him? How could I look into his face again?